


where I found you

by melwritesthings



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brief Mention of Blood, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, minor memories of violence, post s10 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 11:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25349878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melwritesthings/pseuds/melwritesthings
Summary: "They were finally thriving, as opposed to just surviving. Things were finally going their way.And now Ian’s in a hospital bed, thinking he’s fifteen fucking years old. He doesn’t remember their story. He doesn’t remember what they went through together. He doesn’t know Mickey like the back of his hand anymore. He doesn’t even know that Mickey’s gay.And Mickey’s the neighborhood thug again. Ian’s afraid of him. Ian hates him."
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 159
Kudos: 443





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi! I know the amnesia fic has been done to death, but here I am and here it is. I did only some light googling before writing this, so apologies for any inaccuracies. also, barely edited so also apologies for any mistakes! titles is from 'where I found you' by future islands - highly recommend you give it a listen.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

It happened so fast, they told him later. A freak accident. Who could have known?

Ian had been nearing the end of his workday, hosing down the rig after an overnight shift. He balanced on a ladder, his coworker below holding it steady. When asked about it the next day, she would not be able to recall how it happened.

How he fell.

He’d moved too suddenly or twisted too far to reach part of the rig; maybe he slipped as he moved to climb down. One moment he was laughing down at his coworker, and in the next he was on the floor. His supervisor looked him over for signs of concussion—Ian still laughing, chastising his own clumsiness—and finding nothing alarming other than a pair of dilated eyes, sent him home with instructions to rest and take the next day off.

So Ian went home. He met Carl and Lip at the house, filled them in on his day. He was pretty sore, he told them, but he figured he’d be alright in a day or so. He’d flopped on the couch and channel surfed before dozing off.

Mickey was at work. He wasn’t there. He fucking missed it.

Lip told him later that it was like watching Ian grow manic in warp speed. He said that if he hadn’t known better, he would have thought that Ian was suffering from delusions.

Ian woke from his nap confused. He came into the kitchen first, asking if there were any doughnuts left from breakfast that morning – “you know, the ones Steve brought? Don’t tell me Carl ate them all!”

He then moved over to the washing machine, rifling through it for his ROTC fatigues. “There’s a trip this weekend, have you seen my uniform? Fiona said she’d have it ready,” he’d said.

When he started going for the door to get to his shift at the Kash and Grab, Lip decided it was time to go to the hospital. Carl called Mickey on the way.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

-

Ian is blinking in Lip’s direction, brows knit together in confusion.

“Lip,” he asks, voice laced with panic, “is that really you?”

“Yeah, man, of course it’s me,” Lip soothes, moving towards Ian’s hospital bed. “How are you feelin’?”

“ _Awful_ ,” Ian replies, raising a hand to his head. “The fuck happened to me?”

“You fell,” Mickey answers, tired of standing on the fringe of room. He steps closer to Ian, trying to school his worried face into something comforting.

It doesn’t appear to work, because Ian rears back at the sight of him. “What—what the fuck are you doing here?”

Mickey snorts. “How hard did you hit your head, Gallagher? No shit I’m here.” He reaches out to touch his shoulder, desperate to feel his husband solid and safe beneath his hand.

He feels like he’s having an out of body experience, like he’ll never touch the ground again unless he can feel Ian. Mickey hasn’t felt calm since Carl’s phone call.

His fingers barely skim Ian’s hospital gown before they’re smacked away.

“Dude, the fuck are you doing? You try to kick my ass the other day and now you’re here? Fuck that. Are you the reason I’m here?”

Mickey drops his hand like he’s been scalded. His pulse picks up; the calm he was chasing moves further out of reach.

“Kick your… Ian, what are you talking about?”

“You came to my work and tried to kill me, asshole.”

“When the fuck—"

Lip steps forward again, cutting Mickey off. “Ian, uh, can you tell me what year it is?”

Unimpressed, Ian rolls his eyes. “It’s 2011, Lip.”

And Mickey knows he’ll never feel calm again.

-

Things move quickly after that. Lip calls for the doctor while Carl and Debbie usher Mickey back to the waiting room. Ian is panicking— about how _old_ everyone looks, how different his own body feels, Fiona’s absence, his _fucking husband._

Once out of Ian’s room, Mickey walks past Carl and Debbie’s sympathetic faces, past the stiff waiting room chairs, past the vending machines, past the nurses’ station, and out the doors of the hospital.

He’s gasping for a goddamn cigarette.

Still, after lighting one with shaking hands, he lets it drop to the ground. He can’t seem to find the energy to lift it to his lips. Instead, Mickey leans back against the side of the building, closing his stinging eyes against the glowing red lights of the hospital entrance.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

They’ve been married for two years now. They’d made it through parole intact. Ian was finally back at work as an EMT, finally feeling fulfilled with his work. Mickey worked his way up at the mall, helping to run security for the whole place.

It’s no dream job, but they were stable. Comfortable. They were saving up for a down payment on a new place. Their own place, with a yard for a dog and a spare bedroom for any wayward Gallaghers.

They were finally thriving, as opposed to just surviving. Things were finally going their way.

And now Ian’s in a hospital bed, thinking he’s _fifteen_ fucking years old. He doesn’t remember their story. He doesn’t remember what they went through together. He doesn’t know Mickey like the back of his hand anymore. He doesn’t even know that Mickey’s gay.

And Mickey’s the neighborhood thug again. Ian’s afraid of him. Ian _hates_ him.

Mickey feels panic rising in his throat. How did this happen? His entire life – Ian’s entire life—veered so off course in a single day. How were they supposed to handle this?

A soft cough to his left interrupts his spiraling thoughts. Carl stands by the hospital doors, looking at him carefully. “They sedated Ian,” he murmurs quietly, “and the doctor wants to talk to us.”

Mickey nods and silently follows Carl inside. Afraid that if he opens his mouth, he might start screaming.

-

Lip and Debbie meet them in a small office, looking pale and tired. Lip offers Mickey a nod, while Debbie gives him a watery smile. Mickey just blinks back at them and sits on one of the rigid chairs stuffed into the room.

Before long, a harried doctor bustles in, balancing a stack of files. “Ian Gallagher’s family, yes? I’m Doctor Hodges.”

“That’s us,” Lip answers. “What’s going on?”

The doctor hums, sitting behind the desk and flipping through her paperwork before looking up at them. “It looks like Ian is suffering from amnesia due to his fall today. He’s confused about his age, and he’s lost memories of the last ten years or so.”

“Eleven,” Mickey corrects gruffly. “Eleven years.”

“Right,” Doctor Hodges says kindly. She smiles gently and Mickey wants to deck her. “So, what happens now?” he asks, desperate for answers.

"Well, we’ll have to monitor him and run some additional tests, but the good news is that there doesn’t seem to be any lasting brain damage.”

Lip sighs in relief, running a hand over his face. But Mickey isn’t satisfied.

“So you’re saying his memories will come back?”

The doctor looks at Mickey for a moment, clearly trying to choose her words carefully. Mickey fucking hates her. “Well?” he demands.

“I’m saying that the memory loss likely won’t be permanent,” she says slowly. “Ian may regain some or all of his memories. We’ll know more in the coming days. The important thing is that his injury will heal.”

Mickey allows himself to exhale, loosening some of the pressure in his chest.

“What do we need to do?” Debbie asks, phone out and ready to take notes. Mickey nods, ready to do anything to help Ian heal.

“First, we need to treat the injury itself. Ian will stay here for a couple of days for testing. Now, he does have a concussion, which you’ll need to take seriously.”

“No shit,” Mickey snorts.

Lip shoots him a warning glare. Mickey huffs and returns his attention to Doctor Hodges, who smiles her stupid fucking smile back at him.

“He’ll need rest, first and foremost. No work, no driving, no physical exertion for a couple of weeks at least. We’ll need to see him back regularly to check on his cognitive progress. Ian will likely be confused and forgetful for a while. He’ll almost certainly have lingering pain. Be patient.” 

“What about his memory?” Mickey demands. He knows he’s got a one-track mind. He knows he needs to focus on Ian’s physical recovery. But if Ian doesn’t remember him, what use is he?

“Amnesia generally does resolve at least partially,” the doctor says. “I couldn’t say how long it might take. Again, we’ll know more after we determine the extent of his injury.”

“Is there anything we can do to help him remember?” Debbie asks, and Mickey wants to hug her.

“Patience, first of all,” Doctor Hodges reminds them. “Ian is bound to be frustrated about all of this. We can try occupational therapy once he’s healed a bit. You all can help jog his memory at home—photos, smells, music. Things he might associate with past memories.”

Mickey racks his brain, trying to curate a mental list of memories. How can he distill a decade—a fucking lifetime—into smells and sounds?

Just he’s wondering if that old slice of their wedding cake sitting in the back of the Gallagher freezer still has a smell, the doctor stands and gathers her files. “Why don’t you all go get some rest,” she says. “Ian will be resting himself today, so we can regroup tomorrow.”

Annoyance flares through him. How could he leave Ian now? What if he wakes up, in pain and alone? Mickey could never leave him behind like this.

But Lip, ever the goddamn know-it-all, herds them all out of the room and towards the exit. “Come on guys,” he says authoritatively, “Ian’s going to be pretty out of it for a while. Let’s go home and fill in the others.”

Liam and Franny were home with Veronica, Kev, and Sandy. But Mickey didn’t care about them right now.

Mickey halts at the doors; Carl lets out an _oof_ as he runs into him. “I ain’t leaving,” he says firmly. “I ain’t leaving him. I’m his husband, I got fuckin’ rights.”

Lip turns back to him, wearing a sympathetic face that he wants to punch. “Mickey,” he says quietly, “Mickey, he doesn’t know you.”

So Mickey lets Debbie take him by the elbow and guide him to the car.

-

Everyone disperses pretty quickly back at the Gallagher house. The house grows quiet as most of the family attempts fitful sleep. Mickey sits on the couch, head in his hands.

He can’t sleep in their bedroom tonight. He can’t sleep in their bed; he can’t breathe Ian’s scent; he can’t reach out to the empty space where his husband should be—especially when he doesn’t know when they’ll share that space together again.

Mickey hears Lip out on the front steps, explaining everything to Fiona over the phone. He hears the creaks and groans from upstairs as his in-laws turn restlessly in their beds. The distant sounds of sirens. The thudding of his own heart.

Lip steps gingerly into the house. When he spots Mickey still awake, he flops into an armchair and throws a hand over this face. “Fuck,” he breathes. Mickey nods silently in agreement.

“Fiona’s coming,” he says lowly. “She thinks it might help with the memories, give him some sense of normalcy or something.”

Mickey nods again. He’s too exhausted to form an opinion on Fiona’s imminent arrival. Fuck, maybe it will be good to see her. Either way, Mickey knows he’d put up with any Gallagher if it would comfort Ian.

“I’m sorry, Mickey,” Lip says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, “this is… this is fucking shitty.”

Mickey snorts lightly, staring down at his hands. Understatement of the goddamn century. His entire world is falling apart.

Lip stands, stretching lightly. He heads for the back door to go home, clasping Mickey on the shoulder as he passes. “Try to get some sleep man,” he urges. “It won’t last forever. Maybe it will all be over tomorrow. We’ll go see him first thing.”

Mickey doesn’t answer.

He stays seated on the couch, staring unseeingly at the wall, the floor, his lap. He wonders if Ian’s awake right now. If he’s afraid; if he misses Mickey. If Ian, too, feels a gaping hole in his chest.

Or if he’s sleeping, sedated and blissfully unaware of the wreckage their lives have become. Unaware of Mickey.

Miles away from his damaged husband, Mickey drops his head and lets himself cry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all, back again! this chapter is kinda special to me. I have bipolar myself, so I really feel a kinship with Ian. some of this comes from my own thoughts and experiences. anyways, let me know what you think!

Ian scowls as Lip guides him from the car and into the house; he scowls as Debbie ushers him to the couch and fluffs pillows behind his head; he scowls as Carl brings him a fistful of pills and a glass of water – while popping open a beer for himself.

He’s not used to being hovered over like this. Especially by his younger siblings, who are now practically adults. Ian bites his lip to keep from snapping at them to leave him alone.

It’s been a long couple of days.

His home doesn’t look too different from the last time he remembers seeing it. There are toys scattered around the floor, though Ian has to remind himself that they belong to Lip and Debbie’s kids –what the _fuck_ —and not to Liam.

Ian’s head is pounding, both from his injury and the highlight reel of the last decade that Lip gave him in the hospital. Lip wanted to wait until Ian was healed before diving into the greatest hits of Ian’s teens and twenties, but Ian begged his brother not to make him go home without some idea of his life.

Swallowing a mouthful of pills, Ian wonders if he made a mistake.

He found out about the bipolar first, as his doctor finished one of numerous tests of his cognitive ability. “Looks good, Ian,” she said, “I’ll let you rest now. Our psychiatrist should be in shortly to check on you as well.”

“Oh—for what?”

Behind her, Ian saw Lip curse under his breath and smack a hand against his forehead.

“Are you not aware of your diagnosis?”

“He was seventeen,” Lip cut in quickly, “he won’t remember that. I forgot to say something. Fuck, I’m sorry, Ian.”

Ian took in his brother’s grim expression and he already kind of knew the answer when he asked, “What diagnosis?”

-

And it’s not fucking fair.

He’s not all that surprised to learn that it happened to one of them – he’s not even that surprised to learn that it was _him._

Dependable though he has always been, Ian has always felt _intense._ He just feels and wants _so much._ Sometimes it’s rage—more than just teenage angst—that simmers under his skin. It makes him want to fight and break skin and draw blood.

Or it’s ambition. The need to fucking _move_ and rise up and get the fuck out. Keep up, Ian. Don’t slow down now, Ian. Fucking _be better than this,_ Ian.

Lust or desire or _joy_ – Ian has never half-assed his emotions. So, no, it comes as no great surprise that he drew the genetic short straw on the mood disorder.

But it’s just not fucking fair. Because as volatile as he sometimes feels, he’s always swallowed it down for his family. Ian works hard; he keeps his head down (usually) and he does what’s needed. Ian has goals. Ian has plans.

Or he did, anyways.

Lip told him he went to fucking prison.

He wouldn’t divulge many details: Ian stopped taking his meds, he lets things get out of control, and he did his time.

“In the grand scheme of things,” Lip said, “it wasn’t all that bad. You figured it out.”

But all Ian knows is this: he never made it to West Point, he never graduated high school, he still lives at home, and he’s heavily medicated for mental illness. He’s a felon.

And he doesn’t even remember how it _happened._

For a moment, he hopes that this accident is some kind of cosmic do-over, that his mind can revert back to the way it was. But fucking Lip has to remind him that he’s not fifteen again, not really, and he has a whole life waiting for his return. A job. A routine.

A goddamn husband.

-

Ian hasn’t let himself think too much about Mickey. He’s stayed on the periphery over the last couple of days; Ian has only had the odd glimpse of him.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Lip is quiet on those details, too. He thinks Ian should talk with Mickey.

But Ian doesn’t know Mickey. He’s seen him beat the shit out of guys behind the Alibi or stalk the halls at school on his collection day. He kicked Lip’s ass just the other day, because he couldn’t kick Ian’s. That’s what he remembers, anyways.

He doesn’t know the guy that tried to touch his shoulder in the hospital, the guy who wears his wedding ring. Ian doesn’t even know where to start with Mickey.

His doctor suggested that he keep the ring on, to see if triggers any memories.

Sitting on the couch now, Ian fiddles with it. Twists it around, slips it past his knuckles and back down to its resting place. His fingers move of their own accord, as if they already know what they’re doing. Maybe he does this a lot. It doesn’t help him remember anything, but it’s grounding. Maybe a little comforting.

He decides not to wonder what that might mean.

-

Later, when his mind is pleasantly fuzzy and his body warm from a couple of pain killers, Ian watches Debbie braid her daughter’s hair. It’s goddamn incredible.

Franny looks like Debbie; she looks like him.

“You’re a _mom_ , Debs,” he says, amazed at his sister’s gentle fingers weaving through Franny’s red hair.

Debbie beams back at him. “Yeah,” she answers softly, “I’m a mom.”

His mom is dead.

Another one of Lip’s updates. Frank—not his real father, what the _fuck—_ is still around from time to time, showing up at the worst moments before disappearing once more into the ether. But Monica’s been dead for years now.

Apparently, she came back more than once, leaving nothing but broken promises and bloody memories in her wake.

This makes sense to him.

Apparently, he spent some time with her – just the two of them.

That makes less sense to him.

He remembers laying stretched out on their old couch with her, Monica’s fingers running through his hair while her other hand rested on her pregnant belly. Watching Debbie with Franny, he feels Monica’s hands on his skin. That must have been the last time he felt like he had a mother.

He remembers rage burning low in his belly when she left the last time; when she left for good—at least in his memory.

Ian thinks about Carl and Debbie, barely more than babies themselves, carting Liam around in their arms. He thinks about Lip and Fiona huddled over a stack of overdue bills late into the night.

The Monica he remembers now never cared for them, not really. Loved them, maybe, but she was never capable of caring for her family. Ian always knew she was sick – but he also always knew that she was selfish.

But now Ian’s like her. Lip swears up and down that it’s different, that Ian takes care of himself and manages the disorder well these days.

Though he admits it was touch and go for a while.

Ian doesn’t remember the time he spent with Monica. He doesn’t remember what they talked about, where they went, or what they did. He wishes now that he could ask her about it.

He wishes he could ask her about everything: what it feels like in her mind, if it’s right to fear himself, if he’s also going to destroy everything he touches. If he’s going to hurt people. Ian doesn’t know what this disorder feels like yet, and he’s terrified.

Will he know when it’s happening to him? And will he be able to stop it? Or will he, like his mother before him, torch his life and leave everyone he loves coated in ash?

Ian grasps at the ring on his finger before he realizes what he’s doing, and asks Debbie to help him upstairs to bed.

-

He wakes up slowly, the late afternoon sun warming his skin through the window. It’s strange waking up in this room, in the bed that used to be Fiona’s. But his body feels too big and clunky, and he knows he’d never fit in his old twin.

Plus, Debbie suggested that sleeping in his and Mickey’s room might jog his memory.

He rolls over onto his side and breathes into the pillow beneath his head. It doesn’t smell like Fiona, like he was expecting, but something earthy and masculine. It’s nice.

It’s then that Ian notices he’s not alone. Seeing Mickey on the other side of the room, he sits up quickly, wincing at the sharp pain in his head.

Not knowing how to address the stranger-slash-husband standing a few feet away, Ian scrambles for something to say and can only come up with:

“Hi.”

Mickey stares at him for a moment, expression unreadable, before he answers.

“Hey.”

After another pause, Mickey speaks again.

“I’m just grabbing a change of clothes. Just got off work.”

Ian doesn’t know what to do here. Should he engage in casual conversation? He’s _married_ to this man, after all. He should ask about his day or something. But all he can do is nod as Mickey turns to rifle through the closet.

Mickey’s shoulders are rigid as he pulls a sweater from the closet. He holds it for a moment, staring down at it, back still turned to Ian. He takes a deep breath before turning around and tugging it on.

The sweater looks old: brown and soft-looking, it hugs Mickey’s body closely. Ian wonders if it smells like his pillowcase. He watches Mickey’s fingers as they pull the zipper to his chin. Mickey is looking anywhere but at Ian.

It’s quiet for a moment.

“How are you feeling?” Mickey asks, looking at the floor.

“Oh, uh, a little better,” Ian shrugs. “Less sore today.”

“Good,” Mickey sniffs, thumbing at his lower lip. “That’s real good.” He nods brusquely and moves towards the door. Ian is suddenly desperate to stop him.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts.

Mickey turns back, finally looking at him.

“What for?”

“Just… I’m sorry. That I don’t… you know…” he can’t bring himself to say it. _I’m sorry I don’t remember. I’m sorry that I don’t know you anymore. I’m sorry that I don’t know myself._

Mickey closes his eyes, clenches them tight, and runs a hand over his face.

“Don’t fuckin’ apologize for that, Gallagher, Jesus. Let’s just get you better first, alright? One thing at a time.”

Ian nods again, feeling unmoored. He hates this. Hates knowing that he had something—something real, something that should have been lasting—and in the blink of an eye, he’s lost it. Betrayed by his mind once again.

He’s fifteen – not _really_ , he knows – but this is something he’s just started thinking about. He’s out to Lip; well, he’s out to his whole family, seeing as he’s _married to a man._ But in Ian’s mind he’s still a freckled gay kid in the South Side, still guarding his secrets.

Marriage, a husband: Ian has never been sure this would be an option for him. He's used to sex on the side, hidden away. He never thought anyone would stand up with him and commit to forever.

He never even expected a boyfriend. Who would want to be seen holding his hand in their neighborhood? A quick fuck in the backroom. That’s what Ian Gallagher is used to.

Lip filled him in on Kash back at the hospital.

His brother was explaining that he and Mickey had been married going on two years now. Ian felt guilty for thinking about Kash, but he can’t help it. He just saw Kash, just fucked him. Kash is what he knows.

“Ian, I’m telling you about your _wedding_ and you’re thinking about that kid fucker?” Lip’s voice rose with every word and Ian’s head was pounding by the end of the sentence. But he needed to know.

Kash is gone, he learned. Left his wife and kids; left Ian. According to Lip, Ian wasn’t very broken up about it, having already moved on to Mickey. Mickey, who he’s apparently loved for nearly half of his life.

Ian is pulled from his thoughts by the soft click of the door. Mickey is gone. Ian hears him sniff as he moves down the hall.

-

Dinner is overwhelming.

Ian meets Fred, who he instantly loves, and Tami, who he’s not really sure about. He’s never been one to trust his siblings’ love interests. He has yet to figure out what happened to Steve, who had just started coming around.

They’re all crowded around the kitchen table, which should feel familiar. Debbie is shouting across the table at Carl, who is sneaking his vegetables onto Franny’s plate. Lip and Tami are bickering lightly over Fred’s head as they feed him. Liam is next to him, filling him in about school and his favorite subjects.

Ian tries to stay focused on his little brother who has grown so much, but it’s hard to do when Mickey is across from him, staring down at his plate like it wronged him. He’s sitting in the Gallagher kitchen, historically a comfortable place for him, but everything feels _off._

The front door opens and suddenly Fiona is there: Ian’s heart lifts at the sight of her. She looks beautiful, healthy and rested. She pulls him into her arms, and although he’s much bigger than she is now, he lets himself be held and comforted.

Worry tinges her fresh and lovely features when she pulls back to look at him, though, and Ian fucking hates himself for that. Hates that now, he apparently constantly gives his family reason to worry.

He never used to stick out so much.

Now that Fiona is here, she wants to talk about what happened. More urgently, though, she wants to talk about what happens next. The focus of the dinner table turns to him; even Mickey looks up expectantly.

Fiona has incessant questions: who’s taking care of Ian while he recovers? Who’s getting him to his appointments? What’s the plan for his memory? What about insurance, his job?

Pain radiates across his head, pulses through his skull. Somehow the laser-focused energy of the room is affecting him harder than the nonstop chatter of before. Everyone is talking about him. Ian was never the center of attention in this room, and he liked it that way.

Everyone here knows more about him that he does. Everyone here remembers his disorder, his jail sentence, his marriage. And everyone is still talking about him like he’s not sitting right here.

Ian feels irritation rush through his veins. His eyes dart around the table. Lip is talking about setting up a chart—a fucking _chart_ —for the family to sign up for Ian duty. Ian wants to fucking throttle him.

An unfamiliar energy ripples beneath his skin. He clenches his fists under the table, nails digging into his palms. Ian closes his eyes and breathes heavily against the growing tightness in his chest. Lip and Debbie are arguing about who’s going to take him to his appointment later in the week.

“No, I’ll do it,” Fiona assures them. “It’s no problem, I’m here to help.”

Ian looks up sharply at that. Glad to know he’s not a _problem_ , he wants to say, but his lips are pulled together almost painfully.

He’s looking around the table again when his eyes land on Mickey. Mickey’s looking back at him, as if studying him closely. Ian expects his agitation to spike under his gaze, but instead he feels it dull slightly. His shoulders relax; his fingers unclench.

Mickey nods a couple of times before speaking up.

“That’s enough,” he says, but his voice is drowned out by his siblings. He rolls his eyes, clears his throat, and tries again:

“I said, that’s _enough._ ”

The table falls silent and everyone turns to Mickey. “What are you talking about?” Lip asks. Mickey heaves a long-suffering sigh and shoots Lip another eyeroll.

“Look, it ain’t that complicated. Me and Fiona will drive him. Ian will tell us when he needs help with somethin’. We’ll figure everything out as it comes. Easy. How about you ask him what he thinks, huh?”

“Mickey, we have to plan,” Fiona starts. “What if—”

“No, he’s right,” Ian interjects. “I’m an adult now, I don’t need supervision. Just keep it down around here and bring me a glass of water now and then, okay?”

Fiona and Lip look like they want to argue further, but Ian scoots back in his chair before they can start. “Look,” he announces to the room at large, “thank you for helping. But you don’t need to worry so much.”

He’s hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, “and I don’t need any help to get there. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

-

He probably could have used some help getting to bed.

By the time Ian crawls beneath the covers, the pain in his head has reached a crescendo. He wants to turn off the overhead light but can’t bring himself to get back up and hit the switch by the door. So, he settles for blearily peering around the room.

There’s a picture frame on the bedside table; Ian sees the strange, adult version of himself with his arms wrapped around Mickey. They’re dressed up, they might be dancing—wedding photo, Ian decides. He squints at the photo, trying to conjure any memory of that day.

Nothing.

A soft cough from the other side of the room draws his attention from the picture. Mickey is standing in the doorway, holding a glass of water.

“Thought you could use this,” he mumbles, crossing the room in a couple of steps. He places the glass on the bedside table and drops a couple of pain killers beside it.

Ian smiles lightly against the pain in his head. “Thank you,” he murmurs, reaching for the pills. He looks up to find Mickey looking at him intently, much like he did at the dinner table. He nods towards the bed.

“You’re on my side, you know.”

Ian’s stomach clenches in panic. Is Mickey planning to sleep with him? Is he expecting that they _sleep_ together? Is that part of the plan to jog his memory? Ian splutters, searching for an excuse.

Mickey chuckles. “I’m just messing with you, Gallagher. I’m crashin’ on the couch.”

Ian relaxes slightly and smiles back at him. “Right. Well, goodnight then.”

“Get some sleep, man. We’ll figure this out.”

On his way out, Mickey turns out the light. Ian smiles in the dark.

Maybe they will figure this out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next: Mickey searches for a new normal in this weird new reality. I'm on tumblr at mickeys-upset if you wanna chat!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did this chapter take me a thousand years? yes, but I did say I'm bad with update schedules! my brain does not often work when I want it to. but here it is! apologies for any mistakes, I'll edit when I'm dead.

Mickey wakes with a start.

Heart pounding, breath ragged – for a moment he’s back in prison or his shitty rented room in Mexico, immediately alert and defensive.

It’s been a while since he woke up this way. For the last couple of years, he’s woken to Ian’s giant body cocooning him: safe, warm, and comfortable. Without the tangle of limbs and the solid presence of Ian against him, Mickey wakes feeling lost. It takes a second to place his surroundings.

But this is the start of the routine he’s built over the few days since Ian came home.

He wakes up alone, body stiff from another night on the Gallagher couch. Sneaks upstairs for a shower and creeps into his and Ian’s room for a change of clothes. He tiptoes in to avoid waking Ian, whose concussion-addled brain sleeps later than usual.

He heads to work, thwarts some shoplifting and petty vandalism, and tries to avoid thinking of Ian all day. At the end of his workday, Mickey makes his way home, sometimes stopping at the Alibi for a drink. Typical, really, with one massive exception.

Today, Ian is sitting on the couch with Liam and Franny when he gets home. He greets Mickey with a quick smile and a wave, which Mickey eagerly returns. They’ve reached some kind of tacit understanding now: they’re friendly, exchanging smiles and even jokes from time to time. Easy conversations about their days, or how Ian’s feeling.

They don’t talk about their relationship. Not the deep stuff, anyway.

The Gallaghers have started slow with Ian’s memory, showing him family photo albums or the rare home video. Ian watches himself grow up. Mickey helps where he can, adding details to stories or correcting Lip when he inevitably gets something wrong.

But Ian’s still healing, and Mickey is desperate not to overwhelm him. He doesn’t think he could stand it if Ian backed away from him now. So he skirts around the major details of their long history, avoids too much mention of their marriage. Everyone knows they’ll have to get into it eventually, but Mickey’s enjoying the tenable peace they’ve reached in the immediate aftermath of the accident.

Mickey’s still desperate to be near Ian, though. Even if it’s just sitting in the living room together, his fingers itching to touch him. He sees Ian disappear into himself sometimes, struggling to reconcile his fifteen-year-old mind with his adult reality. Mickey has to sit on his hands to keep from reaching out, knowing how his touch once grounded Ian.

Today, though, Ian seems content watching cartoons with the kids. He snorts at the television, and Mickey smiles at his obvious amusement.

“Have you been sitting here all day?” he asks, throwing himself into an armchair and snagging a handful of chips from the bowl on the table.

“More or less,” Ian answers, shrugging. “Lip’s picking up pizza for dinner.”

“Thank god, I’m fuckin’ starving,” Mickey groans, reaching for more chips.

“Long day?” Ian asks, looking up at him with an expression earnest and open.

It takes Mickey’s breath away. How many times have they had this conversation, casual and comfortable? In ordinary circumstances, Mickey would flop over on the couch, head in Ian’s lap. Long fingers would comb through his hair; he’d hear the rumble of Ian’s chest as he spoke.

Mickey blinks back at him for a moment. “Yeah, man,” he manages to say, “not too bad though. Same old shit.”

Ian nods and returns his attention to the television. Mickey watches his profile, the crinkle of his nose as he laughs. He hasn’t kissed Ian in a week now. He racks his brain for something to say, crawling out of his skin with need for Ian to look at him again.

Lip walks through the door with dinner, and the house erupts into activity.

\--

The next morning, Mickey and Fiona accompany Ian to his checkup. The ride over in Fiona’s little rented car is quiet, save for her nervous chatter about life in Florida. This is how Mickey knows Ian is worried: in any other circumstance he would be all ears, drinking in the news of his big sister’s life. Ian is always so present in his interactions, asking questions and reacting to stories.

Mickey sits in the backseat and watches Ian grow tense as he gazes out the window. By the time they reach the hospital, his shoulders have reached his ears. Mickey wants to rub the tension away, to feel Ian relax under his hands. He settles for a quick pat as he exits the car.

“It’ll be fine,” he murmurs as Ian climbs out of the passenger seat. Ian’s face remains creased with worry, but he nods at Mickey.

Ian insists on going back to the examination room alone, and Mickey bites down on his annoyance. He can’t stand being out of the loop. Sitting in the little waiting room with Fiona, with its flickering fluorescent lights and constantly-ringing telephones is making him jumpy and frustrated. He hates the thought of Ian being poked and prodded alone.

Ian is fine. He’s healing well, Mickey knows this. His head still aches and his energy is lower than usual – but he’s progressing. His memory will come in time. This is not the end of the world, not really. Logically, Mickey knows all of this.

But being here, squirming in an uncomfortable chair in a room that reeks of disinfectant, with Ian’s sister biting her nails beside him, Mickey is transported back to another time. A time that _was_ the end of their world.

As if reading his thoughts, Fiona murmurs, “Fuck, this is familiar, huh?”

Mickey hums in response, unable to voice just how familiar this feels. Sitting helpless in a waiting room while the man he loves suffers behind closed doors. Kept at arm’s length from an Ian that doesn’t know him.

Mickey feels rage coil in his gut. This isn’t fucking fair. Ian doesn’t deserve this; _Mickey_ doesn’t deserve this. To be relegated to a stranger in his own marriage, his own life.

He’s overcome with the desire to leave this place. To let Fiona handle things, like she always did back then. He wants to storm out of the waiting room, kick at the doors of the elevator as they close behind him, punch a wall in the parking garage and bust up his knuckles. He wants to stew on the train ride back the house, pick up a six pack on the way, and drink this fucking awful week away.

But leaving here means leaving Ian. And ultimately he knows that this is not the same as the bipolar diagnosis. For one, he’s not willing to let Ian be without him.

A surge of guilt washes away his anger. This is not the same. _They_ are the not the same. Ian will recover from this, Mickey will support him, and one way or another they will reach their equilibrium.

-

A nurse comes to retrieve them after what feels like a goddamn lifetime. Ian smiles wanly at them as they cross into the examination room. He’s sitting on the table, swinging his legs and bumping his feet against its side. Mickey aches to hold him so bad he can’t stand it.

He swallows thickly and returns a brief smile. Fiona is already chattering, rubbing Ian’s arms and ruffling his hair.

“Everything go okay?”

She looks between her brother and the doctor, and Mickey raises his eyebrows in anticipation.

“Ian’s doing well,” the doctor says with a smile. Mickey wants to deck her a little less today. “It doesn’t look like there’s any lasting damage from the fall.”

“I still can’t remember anything though,” Ian grumbles at the floor. He looks up, finding Mickey’s eyes and shooting him an apologetic look. Mickey schools his expression into something that he hopes is unbothered and shrugs back at him.

The doctor looks at Mickey with sympathy and he wants to hit her again.

“I know this must be very frustrating,” she says gently, “but I want to assure you that this is likely temporary—”

“Hold up,” Mickey interrupts, feeling like his heart has dropped into his stomach. “Did you say _likely_ temporary?”

“As I said after the accident, yes, I believe this is temporary. But I can’t say for sure if Ian will regain all of his memories. There may still be gaps.”

Mickey speaks before he can stop himself.

“Could I still be a gap?”

Ian, who had returned his gaze to the floor, snaps his head up towards the doctor like he, too, wanted an answer to the question. Something about it settles Mickey’s mind a little. At least Ian doesn’t want to leave him behind this time. A small comfort.

“No, no,” the doctor says quickly, interrupting Mickey’s train of thought before it can derail, “No, it wouldn’t happen like that.”

She moves on to talk about decreasing Ian’s pain meds and options for cognitive therapy, but Mickey can’t bring himself to pay attention. Fiona is taking notes on her phone; he’ll look them over later. He’s staring at Ian, who has gone inward. Mickey knows he’s blaming himself for this.

Big headed Gallagher, always taking credit for the shit fate deals them.

Soon enough, the visit ends, and Fiona ushers them out of the room and out of the hospital. Mickey climbs into the backseat of the car, fully intending to zone out for the ride home. His body stiffens in surprise, though, when Ian folds his long limbs into car next to him.

Maybe he’s not in the mood for Fiona’s chatter. Maybe, on some cellular level, being near Mickey still calms him. Maybe he’s hoping his memories will return by osmosis. Maybe he senses that Mickey needs to have him close.

It doesn’t matter why.

Because in what little way he can, Ian is _choosing_ Mickey. It’s small, Mickey knows, and it probably doesn’t mean anything. But he appreciates it as part of a larger pattern that Ian has shown since the accident: Ian is _trying_.

Ian sits next to him and asks questions. He includes him in his conversations. He asks for Mickey’s opinion and he asks for his help. Knowing Ian, this could have turned out very differently. The fact that Ian is letting Mickey take an active part in his recovery is nothing short of miraculous. How easy would it have been for Ian to push him out? Easier than it’s been before, probably.

Mickey shakes those thoughts from his head. _It’s not the same,_ he reminds himself, _we are not the same._

-

Later, Ian is napping and Mickey can’t stand one more goddamn second of Peppa Pig. He makes his excuses to Franny and Freddie, leaving them in the care of their Uncle Liam, and heads outside for a smoke.

The door behind him opens, signaling the arrival of another person. In any other moment, he would expect it to be Ian. More often than not, Mickey sneaking away for a cigarette has ended in Ian hunting him down so they could sit quietly together. How many moments of their history have these front steps seen?

Instead, Lip sits down next to him with a quiet _hey man_. Mickey nods his head in greeting.

“Everything go alright this morning?” Lip asks, cracking open a can of Coke.

Mickey hums. It had gone well, really. Things may not be moving as quickly as he would like, but it could always be worse. It has been worse.

Footsteps on the sidewalk pull him from his thoughts. Fiona is walking over from Veronica and Kev’s place, carrying a casserole dish. “Hey,” she calls brightly, “brought some dinner.”

“Awesome, thanks,” Lip answers. “Mickey was just about to fill me in on the doctor this morning.”

Mickey snorts. _The fuck he was_. He can’t remember the last time he had a smoke in peace. Apparently marrying into this family meant never having a goddamn moment to himself ever again. 

Fiona sits on the step below them, happily giving Lip a rundown of the morning’s events. Mickey tunes them out. He’s thinking about the next steps, how to move things along. After hearing the doctor’s report that morning, Mickey is no longer satisfied to sit in the background. He wants his husband back.

So he’s thinking over their long history, cataloging moments and places he could share with Ian. The problem, he quickly realizes, is how to broach the darker periods of their relationship. Does he need to get into their time apart? Their many goodbyes?

How does he take Ian to the dugouts, with its memories of little league and summer nights, without reliving one of their bloodier days and everything that came with it? Or the Alibi, home of date nights and the coming out from hell? Does he take him to the Kash and Grab, where they goofed off and messed around, and where Ian was fuckin groomed?

The Southside is littered with memories – of heat and bruises, of lingering touches and soft looks, of growth and acceptance and so much pain. Mickey is starting to think he can’t separate them from each other.

“—you doing?”

Lip nudges him as he catches the tail end of Fiona’s question, barely registering that she was talking to him at all. He stubs out his cigarette and looks back at her.

“What’s that?”

“I _asked_ how you were doing,” she says, rolling her eyes without any heat behind it.

“Good, yeah,” he answers, “the doc seems to think things are good, so—”

“That’s _not_ what she asked you, man,” Lip interrupts, shoving Mickey lightly.

“The fuck?” he splutters as he shoves Lip back much harder.

“Mick, I asked how _you_ were doin’. I know all about Ian,” Fiona explains.

Mickey thumbs at his lip and drops his gaze to his feet. He hasn’t been thinking much about how he’s doing. It hasn’t seemed as important. He’s getting by.

Looking back up, he’s hit with a dizzying wave of, well, something. A nameless emotion that seizes him. Some maddening combination of grief and frustration, of anger and helplessness. It grips at his chest. This is so _unfair._ Mickey feels singled out by the entire fucking universe, while still feeling small and useless.

“Uh,” he starts, not at all sure he can tell them any of this. “I just fuckin’ hate this,” he grits out, hoping to god or whoever else that they’ll move on, or better yet, go the fuck inside.

Mickey is better at the Gallagher shtick lately. He goes to family dinners and listens to his in-laws talk about their days. Fuck, he even listens to Carl talk police shit. He helps Liam with his homework and colors with Fred and Franny. He makes lunches, budgets, and grocery lists. He picks up non-alcoholic beer for Lip and stupid fancy yogurt for Ian. He’s part of this machine now.

But he’ll never be able to just talk about his _feelings_. Not with them– at least, not without Ian. It’s one thing to tell Lip and Fiona Gallagher about his day at work, it’s another thing entirely to let them see his aching heart.

He noisily clears his throat, hopefully making it clear that he is done with this. Mickey’s vulnerability is reserved for Ian, and these Gallagher siblings are a poor substitute.

They seem to understand, however, as they both rise to their feet and head inside to get ready for dinner. Mickey lights another cigarette, letting the nicotine sooth his frayed nerves until Ian pokes his head out and lets him know that it’s time to eat.

-

When things start happening, it’s all very slow. Mickey had initially imagined that Ian would just wake up one day remembering everything: that he’d bounce down the stairs and scoop Mickey up in his arms, laughing and probably crying a little.

The little moments that start happening, though, aren’t quite as climactic. Ian still doesn’t even remember anything. Instead, it seems that memories are lurking just beneath the surface. Only Mickey seems to recognize their significance. They stoke a little ember of hope in his chest that fuels his days.

A couple of days after the doctor’s visit, Mickey comes home to once again find Ian on the couch. There are no stray Gallaghers in sight, but he doesn’t dare risk this alone time with Ian by jinxing it and asking where they all are. Instead, he flops into the armchair and gazes over at his husband.

Ian is stretched out on the couch, wearing a threadbare pair of pajama pants and one of Mickey’s tanks. Mickey wonders if he even knows that the shirt isn’t his. Ian’s arms are folded behind his head like he’s laid out at some beach cabana, and Mickey can’t resist teasing him.

“You sure look comfortable, Red,” he says, raising his eyebrows when Ian turns to look at him. “Been kickin’ it here all day while the rest of us shmucks bust our asses?”

Ian snorts. “Fuck off, I’m _resting_ , man. It’s all I’m allowed to do anyways.”

Mickey is thrilled. Ian is laughing with him. Every time Ian willingly buys into their back and forth, some gay little part of him lights up. It’s familiar; it feels like _them_. So Mickey keeps going.

“Fuck that, you’ve had enough. Time to peel yourself off that couch and get back to work, asshole,” he taunts, the smirk on his face giving way to a dopey grin.

“ _Hey_ ,” Ian scoffs, “I’ll have you know that I _did_ leave this couch today.”

“Oh yeah? Where’d you go, the fridge?”

“No, you dick, I walked all the way to the Kash and Grab today.”

Surprise wins out, and the smile drops off Mickey’s face. Does Ian know what happened there? Does he know what _started_ there? Could he sense the importance of that place?

“You did, huh?” Mickey tries to keep his voice steady. “What’d you get up to there?”

“I just had a craving,” he says, and Mickey almost chokes on his tongue. “For something sweet.”

Mickey feels like he might pass out on the spot when Ian reaches down beside him and pulls up a bag of candy. Halloween sized Snickers bars. Now that he looks, he can see a smudge of chocolate on the front of Ian’s shirt, and a bit on the corner of his mouth.

Ordinarily, Mickey would have leaned over and licked it off.

Instead, he swallows thickly, and reaches over to steal the bag of candy. “Like ‘em sweet, do ya?” he asks, fully unable to help himself. Even if the memory he’s thinking of ends in him being shot and carted off to juvie, he’d give anything to pull it from Ian’s mind.

“Nah,” Ian answers, unaware of the pandemonium occurring in Mickey’s brain.

Mickey knows this. Ian’s never been one to crave sweets. This means something. Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, Ian is trying to get to their origins.

He hides a grin by popping a candy in his mouth. It’s sweet.

-

Mickey is brushing his teeth the next morning when he hears it. The music floats up the stairs and settles around him, wrapping him up in something familiar. He recognizes it instantly.

Etta James’s smooth voice lulls him into a momentary trance. Staring at himself in the mirror, he remembers those steps he took to meet Ian at the end of the aisle, heart thudding in his chest. He thinks about the look on Ian’s face, the way his lips tugged into a smile as he approached. The fierce love in his eyes as they turned to face the officiant.

He rinses out his mouth and throws his toothbrush in the cup by the sink. He needs to see Ian, needs to know the meaning behind the music.

Mickey thunders down the stairs, stopping in the landing to take in the sight before him. Ian is holding Fred and swaying, twirling about the kitchen. He leans over the table to sing to Franny, who giggles back at him.

 _My heart was wrapped in clover_ he croons at his niece, and Mickey can’t help but cringe lightly. Ian’s never been much of a singer, but Mickey loves his goofy voice anyways.

Lip is at the stove flipping pancakes. He catches Mickey’s eye and winks.

Ian sits down at the table, placing little Fred in a booster seat next to him. He smiles when he sees Mickey amble down the rest of the stairs.

“Hey, Mick,” he says easily. “Hungry?”

Mickey can’t speak. How many times has he stumbled into the kitchen to see Ian goofing around with his niece and nephew? How many times has he heard that absolute goober butcher a beautiful song? How many times has a soft _hey Mick_ tilted his entire world on its axis?

 _It’s so close,_ he thinks. _We’re so close._

When he looks back at Ian, he’s closed his eyes. Still humming to their wedding song – _and here we are in heaven, for you are mine at last_.

When he opens his eyes, Ian studies Mickey through a calculating gaze. He knows. He knows this is important, that it means something to them. Mickey looks back, unblinking. He won’t hide from this moment.

Ian breathes a laugh and shakes his head, smiling down at the table. Mickey reaches across the table and steals his coffee.

They’re on the cusp of something. It feels like years ago, when Mickey was staying here when Ian first came back. They’re getting to know each other again, relearning each other. It’s thrilling and its unknowable.

It’s going be huge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone still out there? thoughts? I'm trying to keep a balance between the angst and the cheer, i don't want to bum myself out too much. find me on tumblr @mickeys-upset.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here i am again, welcome back to those that stuck around! i will apologize time after time for how long this takes, and then continue to be the slowest writer in the world. remember the medical inaccuracies tag - none of this real and i have no idea how any of this really works. creative license!

Ian sits up and blinks away the surprise at finding himself in Fiona’s room, in a bed where his toes don’t hang over the edge. It happens every morning: he wakes up expecting to see Lip asleep in the bunk above him, expecting to hear Carl snuffle as he rolls over in his sleep. He panics for a brief moment, eyes flying open and breath hitching, and then—

Oh. Right.

Ian rubs at his eyes and runs through his morning reminders. _You’re 26 now, Ian. This is your room now, Ian._ He turns his head and catches a glimpse of the framed wedding photo on the nightstand. _You’re married now, Ian._

He nods bracingly and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, his brain having caught up with his current reality. Ian rubs a hand over his forehead, feeling out today’s pain level. It’s not so bad. His head is usually throbbing by the end of the day, but it doesn’t interfere with his days too much. Still, he takes it easy.

His muscles are itching for a run, but he hasn’t been cleared for strenuous exercise just yet. He can putz around the house, walk down the block, and hang out with the kids, but not much else. And his siblings would no doubt have his head if he did anything to hinder his recovery.

Not to mention Mickey.

In the week or so since he’s been home, Ian has come to depend on Mickey— though he hates to admit that he depends on anyone. Mickey acts as the go-between between Ian and his older siblings when their concern feels overbearing; he keeps their laundry cleaned and organized because Ian doesn’t know which clothes belong to him; he shows Ian which pills to take and when because Ian forgets that he needs those now.

More than that, Mickey soothes the frustration that flares every time Ian fails to remember or understand something about this new life. The self-loathing and irritation that crackles under his skin when one of his siblings make a reference that goes over his head, or when he doesn’t remember the routines and schedules of his adult family.

Mickey is there with a snort, a hit of his cigarette, and a muttered _it ain’t the end of the world, Gallagher._ And suddenly, it’s not the end of the world. Mickey pulls Ian out of his head, reminds him of his progress, assures him that this is temporary.

Ian putters to the bathroom, amazed as he is every morning that he doesn’t have to elbow Lip or Debbie out of the way first. His brothers and sisters are already out in the world, working or scamming or whatever they’re up to lately. Lip doesn’t even live here anymore.

He’s rinsing the shampoo from his hair when a knock sounds from the other side of the bathroom door. Ian pokes his head from behind the shower curtain to see Fiona smiling shyly at him.

“What’s up, Fi?” he asks, knowing full well that she’s about to ask him for something.

“ _Ian,_ ” she sings out sweetly, “could you watch the kids today so I can spend some time with V?”

Ian and Fiona have been in charge of Fred and Franny for the past few days, a welcome relief to Lip and Debbie, who are always looking to save on childcare.

He doesn’t mind taking on his niece and nephew alone today. Ian can babysit in his sleep—it feels like one of the few things he hasn’t forgotten how to do. He gives Fiona a thumbs up and smiles at the delighted laugh that sounds as she shuts the door behind her.

Ian likes to see Fiona enjoy herself. It’s a vast improvement from the harried, perma-worried expression that once haunted her face day in and day out.

Once dressed for the day, Ian heads downstairs to find Fred and Franny together on the couch, captivated by a cartoon he doesn’t recognize. Fiona rushes by, passing him a cup of coffee and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“They’ve already had breakfast,” she calls, already halfway out the door, “thanks, Ian!”

Ian waves in her general direction and settles on the couch with the kids. They haven’t noticed anything different about him over the last few days, and it’s a relief to have interactions with no expectations—even if they’re with a two and a six year old.

“Hi, Uncle Ian,” Franny says distractedly, entranced by the cartoon animals dancing on screen.

“Good morning, Miss Franny,” Ian returns, holding his coffee cup at arm’s length as Fred scrambles into his lap.

Fred likes Ian. He’s always darting to him and begging to be picked up or played with whenever he spots his uncle. Ian finds that he loves being an uncle in the way he’s always loved being a big brother. He loves making the kids smile, loves looking after them, loves making them feel better.

It gives his days of recovery a sense of purpose, taking care of them.

They spend their days in a pretty stable routine: breakfast and cartoons, coloring and make believe, lunch and a game of charades, naps and snacks. Franny has been really into pirates lately, and Ian has nearly perfected his pirate voice. Fred sits on his shoulders and squawks like a parrot.

The sound kills his head, but it’s worth it for the little laughs that follow.

Today, as he’s fixing peanut butter sandwiches and slicing an apple, Ian marvels at the state of his childhood house. It’s still worn and shabby, well-loved and maybe falling apart in a couple of places. But the fridge is consistently stocked with food. The bulletin board is littered with artwork and aced quizzes rather than final bill notices. There’s not a single court date circled on the calendar.

There are still kids bouncing off the walls. But these kids aren’t wondering if they’ll have dinner tonight. They aren’t tripping over Frank on their way to breakfast. They aren’t searching the couch cushions for change to get the power turned back on. No one’s headbutting them in the living room.

Ian laughs a little hysterically to himself. It’s incredible, the way his family has unfolded. They’re still scrappy and they’re _definitely_ still taking it day by day, but there’s a tension Ian remembers well that is absent from the house these days.

He wishes he could remember.

He wishes he could remember meeting baby Fred and Franny. Wishes he could remember watching Liam learn to read, seeing Debbie become a mom, running and training with Carl. He wishes he could remember Lip graduating high school. Saying goodbye to Fiona.

Before he can get misty eyed, Franny comes tearing through the kitchen with Fred toddling behind her, and Ian slips back into uncle mode.

-

Once Lip and Debbie have returned to scoop up their offspring and head off for baths, appointments, or whatever else, Ian settles on the couch to wait for Mickey.

It’s become an integral part of his daily routine. Mickey comes home from work and they chat; Ian particularly enjoys talking to an adult—cursing, insults, and all—after a full day of pirate talk. Mickey fills him in on his day at work. There’s usually a fun story about a chase through the mall or at least some interesting people watching. Mickey’s good at telling stories with his expressive eyebrows and uncontrollable hand gestures. Ian always ends up snorting with laughter.

It’s like having a best friend appear out of nowhere. Ian doesn’t remember loving—hell, or even liking Mickey, but now his presence just makes sense. It fits in his house, with his family. He knows Mickey is wishing for more. He can see it out of the corner of his eye when they’re talking, the way Mickey fidgets and sighs. But Ian also knows that Mickey tries not to let him see it.

Instead, Mickey asks him about the kids and the games they played that day, about how his head’s feeling, about what he might like for dinner. He doesn’t ask Ian about his memories. Ian appreciates it—this is the area of recovery where Ian feels the most pressure.

There have been little moments. Not full memories, but hints of things he used to know. Debbie caught him singing a favorite song of hers as he did the dishes one night— she cackled with delight as she informed him that he’d actually _hated_ that song when it came out last year. Ian wasn’t sure how he knew the words.

He helped Liam with a summer reading project on a book he didn’t remember reading. But the characters were familiar; the plot came to him as he talked Liam through it. Mickey had beamed at him across the kitchen table.

Mickey was strangely touched when Ian picked up his favorite brand of pork rinds from the Kash and Grab yesterday.

So, things are happening. Not as quickly as any of them would like, but enough to know that they will _keep_ happening.

Ian leans with his elbows on his knees, kneading his temples with his fingers. As if he could massage the memories from his mind. Fuck, he was willing to try anything. As far as he could tell, he had been enjoying his life and he would like to get back to it.

This is how Mickey finds him.

“Ian?” sounds his nearly-panicked voice, “What’s going on, are you hurt?”

Ian jerks up and smiles lightly. “No,” he assures him, “just hoping to coax something out of here.” He taps his head lightly and shrugs. “It’s not working.”

Mickey’s concerned expression softens, and Ian feels his hackles go up at the sign of pity.

“It’s fine,” he says quickly and maybe a little harshly.

To Ian’s relief, Mickey moves on, nodding once and flopping into the armchair. Mickey cracks his knuckles and rubs a hand over his face.

“Holy shit man,” he groans, “I cannot believe I spend all fuckin’ day _stopping_ people from stealing shit. I used to steal shit all the time.”

Ian laughs, thinking about teaming up with Veronica to steal dairy products from the delivery guy, or cutting dozens of Debbie’s stolen coupons.

“Yeah,” Ian says through a chuckle, “seems like our days of petty larceny are over.” He says this knowing full well that Debbie still steals coupons, and that Lip won’t hesitate to pilfer an extra package of pull-ups when said coupons have expired. Old habits die hard and all that.

Mickey hums as he stands and makes his way to the kitchen. He comes back with a beer for himself and a painkiller for Ian, who swallows it down with a sip of water and leans back against the couch.

“You know,” Mickey says, flicking his eyes to meet Ian’s before returning his gaze to the label on his beer bottle, “I used to steal from the Kash and Grab all the time.”

Ian raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t remember that.

“You did? I don’t remember seeing you much in there until you tried to kick my ass. You must have been really good.”

Mickey snorts. “Nah, man,” he says, shaking his head, “I, uh, started going in there a bunch after your almost-beatdown. It was fun.”

Ian splutters. “What was fun about stealing from that place? Kash literally never cared.” He sees Mickey’s face darken briefly at the mention of Kash, but he recovers quickly.

“It was fun to get a rise out of you. You fuckin’ hated seeing me come in there.”

Ian doesn’t remember, but he’s sure that’s not true. He can imagine the thrill of watching Mickey bust into the store—as long as Ian knew he wasn’t there to kill him.

“So you’re saying you stole from the store to _flirt_ with me?” Ian teases. This is too good. They’ve been inching closer to this—real conversations about _them_ , their history—for a couple of days now. Ian is exhilarated.

“Don’t go getting a big head, I wouldn’t go that far,” Mickey says around his beer bottle. “You were a gangly little fucker and it was fun to piss you off.”

Ian smiles, sure there was more to it than that. He lets the warmth of Mickey’s memory—of the smile on his face as he recalls it— flood through his veins. It feels almost as good as if he could remember it himself.

Mickey nabs the remote from the coffee table and starts flipping through channels. He stops at a show that seems to be about people building giant sculptures out of flowers. Ian tilts his head and raises his eyebrows, awaiting an explanation. Mickey rolls his eyes in response.

“Franny really dug this show for a while. We all started watching it with her and then your siblings got weirdly into it. Had a betting pool and everything.”

“Who won?”

“I did.” Mickey winks and returns his gaze to the television.

Ian snorts and focuses on the show. It would be fun to bring up with his brothers and sisters later, to see what they remember. The contestant onscreen is talking about her creation, a blue whale made of deep blue and purple flowers. Lilies.

Something clicks in Ian’s brain. A piece of knowledge worms its way from the recesses of his mind and settles at the forefront. He turns to Mickey, who is staring at the screen and worrying his bottom lip.

“You like those.”

Mickey snaps his head towards Ian. His eyes are wide, piercing.

“You remember that?”

Ian falters, embarrassed that he got Mickey’s hopes up. “I- I don’t know why I know that.”

That’s how these things go. Ian doesn’t know something. Then, suddenly, he does. He has no grounding in _how_ he knows it. But something just slots into place.

Mickey nods, a ghost of smile playing at his lips. “When we were planning our wedding… we were gonna have those flowers.”

Ian is floored, not expecting to hear that. They haven’t explicitly talked much about being married, their connection going unspoken. He decides to roll with it: maybe it will bring the actual memory forward.

“What do you mean _gonna_ have them?”

Mickey grimaces. “Homophobic florist wouldn’t give them to us. Old hag. Couldn’t find another florist that had them, so we had white ones instead.”

Ian doesn’t know much about where he’s been or what he’s done. He’s not sure what happened when he enlisted or how he felt when his mom died. He doesn’t remember how to be an EMT. But now he knows this: Mickey Milkovich used to come into the Kash and Grab to see him, and then years later they got married.

Ian smiles.

“I’m sure they were really nice.”

-

Fiona leaves a day later. Ian is healing well, and she needs to get back to work. He hoists her suitcase into the trunk of her rental car. Slamming it shut, he turns back to his sister. 

“You gonna be okay?” she murmurs, tossing her cigarette and moving towards him. 

Ian nods, swallowing around a lump in his throat. This is hard for him. To admit that he’d needed this, needed her. Ian prefers to be self-sufficient. But he can’t help it: irritating though it may have been at times, Fiona’s care has been crucial. It always was, really.

He opens his arms and lets her step inside. Squeezing tight, he breathes in the familiar scent of her hair and closes his eyes. This is the source of comfort that the Gallagher kids have always known.

Fiona hinted at some distance between them over the last few years, but Ian doesn’t care to know the details. He’ll remember them soon enough.

The last week with Fiona, despite the circumstances, has been _special_. Ian doesn’t remember time with his sister that wasn’t spent scamming money for bills, racing someone to the clinic, or wrestling Frank out of the house.

Over the last few days he got to watch Fiona enjoy meals that she didn’t scrounge up herself. He got to watch her nap in the living room with Fred, with nowhere else to be and nothing else to do. He got to watch her _play._

“Thank you for coming,” he whispers.

She pulls back and gives him a wide, watery smile. “Of course, sweet face,” she breathes, patting him lightly on the cheek. Ian rolls his eyes fondly at the nickname. Something warm and certain settles in his gut: everything is going to be fine. That’s how Fiona always made him feel.

“Shit,” she chuckles, “it’s actually hard to leave.”

Ian reaches out and wipes a tear from her cheek, then nods towards the front steps where his siblings have all congregated. Fiona breathes in deep and opens her arms wide to embrace them all.

He moves away from the throng of Gallaghers, giving them room to say their own goodbyes. Mickey appears beside him, having escaped Fiona’s hug with a firm pat on the back. Ian watches Lip open the car door for their sister and usher her inside.

He raises a hand to wave as the little car makes its way down North Wallace and turns out sight. Mickey bumps him with his shoulder.

“You good?”

Ian considers for a moment. In the span of ten days, his entire world has been knocked of kilter. His job, his family, and his marriage are all foreign to him. His life feels unlived—or at least, it feels like it’s been lived by someone else.

And yet.

The fierce panic of the early days has settled into a thrumming energy under his skin. It feels more like possibility. His life will come back. For now, he just gets to learn. He gets to marvel at the life he’s built, even if it doesn’t look how he expected. From what he has heard, Ian has hit bottom more than once and clawed his way back up every time. He resolves to be proud of that.

He nudges Mickey back and turns towards the house, ready to back in and get dinner started.

“Yeah man,” he says, finding he fully means it, “I’m good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i rewatched the wedding episode for this chapter (any excuse to watch it will do, really) so i think i got the flowers right but lmk if that is not the case. or just suspend your disbelief :) the flower show is based on the big flower fight on netflix which i have never actually seen, but i enjoy the basic premise 
> 
> thank you for reading and thank you for sticking with me! things will move a little more quickly next chapter. 
> 
> let's chat, find me on tumblr @mickeys-upset


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> umm.. I'm back. I don't know how this happened- I started writing this chapter after I posted the last one and did not stop for two days. but here we are! you may have noticed that I updated the chapter count, so there will be seven in total. this chapter is a beast yall, I couldn't bring myself to cut anything out. enjoy!

Mickey wakes up hard and aching.

He palms himself lightly to relieve some pressure, then rolls onto his side, pulling the blanket to his chin. The last fucking thing he needs is to get caught rubbing at himself on his family’s couch.

Ordinarily, in his bed upstairs, Mickey would roll over and find himself face-to-face with Ian. His husband would probably already be awake, having crawled back into the bed after his post-run shower. Mickey would watch water droplets drip from his red hair and down his neck, down his chest. Maybe he’d reach out and trace one as it made its way down Ian’s skin.

He’d feel Ian shiver under his fingertips.

Mickey would smirk in response, trailing his hand down Ian’s neck to his chest. He’d tweak a nipple and continue down his belly, feeling the ginger hair at his navel. Ian’s breath would hitch and he’d scoot closer to Mickey, resting his head on Mickey’s shoulder and pressing wet kisses into his skin. Mickey’s hand would skirt under the blanket and make its way between Ian’s thighs, wrapping around his—

_Stop._

He rubs his eyes and wills himself to stop thinking of Ian, who is probably sleep-warm and glowing in the morning sun upstairs. Stupid, beautiful, out of reach Ian.

Mickey sits up and stretches, wondering if it’s early enough to beat Carl or Debbie into the shower. He pads upstairs and finds the bathroom mercifully empty. Stepping under the hot spray, he realizes that he’s still hard.

He hasn’t thought much about sex over the last few days, his mind instead occupied with Ian’s recovery and progress. At first he was too worried and stressed to feel any arousal; once Ian started healing, it just felt… wrong.

Mickey’s not stupid: he knows Ian’s not really fifteen. There’s nothing _wrong_ with thinking about Ian’s broad chest or strong arms in the comfort of this shower. But Ian still feels young and lost sometimes, and Mickey refuses to be another adult creep that gets off to a vulnerable Ian.

Still, this hard-on is unrelenting, and Mickey could use a release. So he cuts himself a little slack and wraps a hand around himself. Ian wouldn’t mind.

-

Mickey took the day off work to accompany Ian to his latest appointment. They eat a hurried breakfast and race downtown in Debbie’s car, undoubtedly running late without Fiona to keep them in order.

Ian huffs and fidgets a little in the passenger seat next to him. Mickey raises his eyebrows but doesn’t pry, having learned that pushing Ian when he’s in a mood usually ends in bickering, both of them often saying things they don’t mean. Head injury or not, Ian’s short fuse doesn’t seem to have faded.

Before too long, Ian spits it out.

“You know you don’t have to drive me, right? I do still remember how to take the L.”

Ah. This again. It’s something they’d been actively working on before the accident— they’ve been working on it for their whole marriage, really. Communicating their needs and admitting, honestly and without self-judgment, when they might be struggling. They’d been doing better with it.

Of course, Ian’s brain dumped that work out the window.

Since coming home from the hospital, Ian has largely allowed himself to be cared for. He doesn’t want to be smothered, that much is clear, but he let Fiona shuffle him up to bed at a decent hour, he let Lip talk him out of going for a jog, he lets Mickey dole out his pills.

He must be getting sick of it now. Mickey gets it, he does, but he doesn’t want to fight with Ian.

“Look man,” he sighs, “we agreed on how this was gonna go. I know you don’t like feelin’ like you gotta rely on us, but—”

“That’s not it,” Ian interrupts. At Mickey’s dubious look, he amends, “Well, that’s not _all_ of it.”

“Then what’s up?” he asks, curiosity piqued.

“It’s just… you’re doing so much for me. And I’m—I’m fuckin’ _useless_ right now. I could at least get myself to the doctor.”

Mickey’s not having it.

“Jesus, Ian,” he says, hazarding a glance at him as he turns into the hospital parking garage, “you have a fuckin’ head injury. You don’t have to be your boy scout self right now.” 

Ian closes his eyes, apparently steeling himself for what he’s going to say next. Mickey bites his lip in anticipation. They haven’t really had a _serious_ conversation since the accident. He doesn’t want to stress Ian out.

“I just don’t know how you can stand having me for a husband right now,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on his own lap.

Mickey snorts in response and Ian’s eyes fly up to meet his.

“I think this counts as the _sickness_ in _sickness and health_ , Gallagher. It sure as hell ain’t what I wanted for us, but I’m not gonna fuckin’ bail.”

Ian’s lips quirk into a slight smile and Mickey continues.

“Look, this sucks. I know this sucks. But it’s not gonna suck forever. And one day shit’s gonna suck for me, and I know you’ll have my back.”

Ian doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah, I will.”

“Good. So let me have your back for now.” He shoves Ian lightly. “Come on, let’s get out of this fuckin’ parking lot before we miss your appointment.”

-

The appointment was the exact same as last time. The doctor was optimistic: no lasting trauma and the recent developments with Ian’s sort-of memories are a good sign. _Everything looks good,_ she said.

And what else could have happened?

Mickey doesn’t know why he suddenly feels disappointed. It’s not like the doctor was going to miraculously find a magic pill or injection that would fix Ian’s memory. _Everything looks good._

He’s frustrated. Walking out of the hospital and back to the car, Mickey can’t bring himself to make conversation. He hates feeling this way—wasn’t he _just_ saying to Ian that this wasn’t going to suck forever? Why is he suddenly going back on his own word?

For an instant, there’s a flash of anger in his gut aimed right at Ian. Why wasn’t he more careful? How could he let this happen to them?

Ian smiles timidly at him as they climb into the car, and a wave of shame crashes over him. He can’t blame Ian for this.

But fucking hell is he tired of being at war with Ian’s brain.

The drive back towards the house is silent, both of them lost in their thoughts. Ian gazes out the window while Mickey drums his fingers against his thigh with no discernable rhythm, resting his other hand against the steering wheel. He’s agitated, and he needs to calm down before they get home. He can’t be visibly pissed when they arrive with technically good news.

At a red light he tries to steady his breathing, not wanting to upset Ian over this. He’d fucking hate himself if Ian regressed because of Mickey’s shitty attitude. He needs to get it together, he needs to—

A warmth covers his hand. He blinks down at his leg, where Ian’s hand now rests on his own. Mickey glances up to Ian, who just shrugs good-naturedly back at him. _Whatever works,_ his face seems to say.

He doesn’t remember the last time he touched Ian’s skin. A horn behind them blares as the light turns green. Ian pats Mickey’s hand before reaching up to punch his shoulder lightly, then returns his hand to his own lap.

Mickey feels his mind settle as he presses on the accelerator.

-

They’re sitting on the porch before dinner, passing a cigarette back and forth. It could be any other night.

“Can you tell me more about my job?” Ian asks through a cloud of smoke.

Mickey smiles. He’s glad Ian is asking questions. He wants Ian to be curious about his own life; wants him to see it from Mickey’s perspective. Ian’s doing great, memory loss notwithstanding.

“You’re fuckin’ great at it,” he answers.

Ian quirks a brow. “Yeah?”

“Hell yeah, man, perfect scores on the practical _both_ times you took it.”

He looks over to see Ian press his lips together.

“Shit. Yeah, I heard I lost the job for a while.”

The whole _prison_ aspect of the situation goes without saying. Mickey nods, crushing the cigarette beneath his foot.

“You got it back though,” he says simply. “It’s your thing, man.”

Ian studies him for a moment before speaking again.

“Lip says… Lip says that I, uh, got into it because of an old boyfriend.”

And there it is. Mickey knew that Lip had given Ian a loose timeline of their relationship—what he knew of it, anyways. He knew Ian would be curious about the details: he’s kind of surprised it took this long to come up.

“Caleb, yeah,” Mickey says, now itching for a beer, “ _fuck_ that guy, man.”

“You didn’t like him?” Ian asks, sounding half-teasing and half-genuine.

Mickey doesn’t want to talk about Ian’s ex. He doesn’t want to think about their time(s) apart. He doesn’t want to think about Ian finding himself—finding a purpose, a passion—while Mickey sat in prison. He’s not angry about it anymore. But he doesn’t want to talk about it.

Still, how could he deny Ian this?

“Never met him,” Mickey answers, “I was, y’know, _away_ when that went down.”

Ian ducks his head in embarrassment, having already been filled in on Mickey’s incarcerations. He rubs the back of his neck.

“Right. Sorry.”

Mickey waves the apology away. It is what it is. The whole amnesia thing aside, Mickey has been pretty fucking pleased with how things turned out for him. If jail and heartbreak was what it took to get him here, enjoying a summer evening with his husband, then so be it. All in all, it was worth it. He’s about to say so when Ian speaks again.

“We broke up a lot, huh?”

Fuck a beer, Mickey needs a whiskey. He can’t blame Ian for wanting to understand. Their history is long, and in many places painful. Mickey doesn’t want to cover anything up—Ian will know once he remembers, anyways.

“Somethin’ like that,” he says lowly.

Ian hesitates. Mickey closes his eyes, knowing what’s coming next.

“Lip tells me a lot of that has to do with me. With my, y’know…” he trails off, pointing to his temple. Because of the disorder.

Mickey grunts. It was more than that. Their splits and separations were about timing and self-preservation, they were about upheaval and destruction. Ian’s mind couldn’t be blamed for it all. But he doesn’t know how to put that into the right words.

“I don’t know about that. Maybe.”

“I’m sorr—”

“Holy fuck, _no_ , Ian,” Mickey interrupts sharply. “You’re not apologizing for what you _don’t remember._ You do it enough when you _are_ all there.”

Ian laughs lightly, throwing his hands up in surrender.

“We went through a lot,” Mickey tells him, “together and apart.”

He takes a deep breath, considering his next words. Ian leans forward slightly, eager to hear them.

“And when you remember everything, you’ll fuckin’ know exactly why we deserve to be happy.”

-

Ian shoots him a dopey look as they sit down to dinner. It’s the exact face he remembers seeing outside the Kash and Grab over a decade ago, minus a few thousand freckles. Mickey rolls his eyes fondly and digs into his meal.

The family passes around salad and bread, engulfing the table in familiar chatter about their days. Carl bores the room with a long-winded story about his patrol. Mickey looks to Ian for moral support to get through it without snapping at him to _shut the fuck up about cop shit_.

He can’t seem to meet Ian’s eye. His husband is staring down at his spaghetti, as if the answers to all life’s questions were hidden in the meatballs.

Ian looks up slowly and Carl finally grows quiet as his siblings take notice of him.

“Ian,” Debbie calls lightly from the end of the table, “what’s up?”

Mickey tries not to panic as Ian continues to stare around the room. Is this some kind of sudden onset episode? Can that even happen? Ian’s mental health has thankfully been quite stable since the accident, but what if this is some kind of delayed reaction? He’s about to get up to grab Ian’s sedatives when he finally speaks.

“Lip,” Ian begins slowly, and Lip leans forward in his chair, looking alarmed. “Lip, did you… did you really bust a _watermelon_ on the Kash and Grab floor?”

The room is silent for a moment as everyone processes what Ian just said. Lip reacts first, letting out a loud _whoop_ and launching himself from his chair and over to Ian. He wraps his arms around his brother and shakes him lightly.

“I did,” he barks over the laughs and shouts of the family, “I _did_ bust a watermelon on the Kash and Grab floor! You fucker.”

“You were mad at me for something.” Ian says it like a question, like he still can’t quite trust the memory. “Or I was mad at you—why was I mad at you?”

“Ah, we were mad at each other, but who gives a shit? Holy _fuck,_ Ian!”

Lip releases his brother and practically dances back to his seat between Tami and Fred. He places a smacking kiss to his son’s cheek. “Holy _fuck,”_ he laughs again. The rest of the Gallaghers offer their congratulations to Ian and return to their food, not wanting to tire Ian out after such a huge moment.

Mickey smiles at Ian but he knows it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s ridiculous, this bitter disappointment that settles low in his stomach. It’s just… he hoped that when Ian remembered something at last, it might involve him.

He looks down at his plate, poking at his noodles. Ian doesn’t even know that he was there that day. When he looks back up, Ian is peering at him through narrowed eyes.

“You didn’t even help me clean it up,” he says accusingly.

It’s almost painful, the grin that splits his face.

“Fuck no, I did not.”

-

The next couple of days are a whirlwind.

Memories come to Ian as he goes about his day. He remembers Franny’s first steps as he flips pancakes one morning. Lip’s laser robot—Frank—winning against those college pricks comes to him the shower. He texts Mickey while he’s at work to let him know that he remembers watching Mickey get a bullet pulled from his ass.

Their relationship shifts with each memory. Ian starts to understand just how deep their bond runs. 

Ian now has pieces of their story: the fight for the gun that quickly turned into a fuck, moments at the Kash and Grab, bickering in their prison cell, emptying his savings account on the way to Mexico. None of it is chronological, and they spend their evenings putting everything in context.

When he started remembering mornings spent with a baby on his hip and kissing Mickey goodbye, they had a conversation about Terry and Svetlana. Mickey dreads the day Ian remembers it for himself.

There’s no great revelation. The memories don’t burst behind his eyes or knock him on his ass. Ian tells him it feels like piecing together a dream after waking up. Sometimes all he gets are snippets, snapshots of moments, with no context or understanding of their significance. They just sort of rise to forefront of his consciousness.

Mickey wishes he could stay home from work and help Ian sort through this. The memories of the army, the club, Monica—they’re bound to start filtering through. He makes Ian promise to tell him when the bad memories appear. He wants to be able to talk through them—to help ground Ian when something undoubtedly fucking frightening surfaces. To remind him how everything turned out.

The family is sitting together in the living room watching Peter Pan for the five hundredth goddamn time—seriously, _fuck_ Franny’s weird pirate obsession— and Mickey can’t keep his eyes off Ian.

Ian isn’t paying any attention to the movie: he’s gone inward, staring at the wall in concentration. Mickey knows something is unfurling in his mind. He hopes it’s something nice, like their wedding dance or a moment under the high school bleachers. Any of them.

But Ian stands abruptly and marches up the stairs, not stopping to say goodnight to anyone. Mickey sighs and gets up to follow, suddenly feeling thrown back to the days when he followed an increasingly manic Ian around the southside.

Mickey knocks at the door frame before sliding the accordion door open, stepping softly into their room. Ian is on his back on top of the covers, looking blankly at the ceiling.

“Ian,” he calls lightly, moving across the room and sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s a little surprised when Ian doesn’t kick him out. “Ian, what did you see?”

Ian doesn’t look at him, swallowing thickly before he answers.

“I broke up with you outside. Right on the steps.”

Mickey’s heart clenches in his chest. He doesn’t know where to start. Ian already knew he’d ended things with Mickey. He already had the basic rundown of their history. But Mickey supposes that knowing it and seeing it are two different things.

He wants Ian to know that he understands why he did that now— that he never resented him for it. That Mickey forgave him right away; that there was nothing really to forgive.

“You did,” he says, wanting to give Ian space to tell him exactly what he remembers.

“Fuck _,_ ” Ian groans, “you told me you loved me and I just—oh _fuck_.”

Ian slams a fist into the side of his head like he’s trying to knock the memory back out of his brain.

“Hey— _hey_ ,” Mickey says firmly, grabbing his hand and holding it between his own. “Let’s not damage that head any further, yeah?”

Ian laces his fingers with Mickey’s, stroking his hand absently with his thumb. They’re easing back into casual touches—hand squeezes, arm rubs. Ian briefly laid his head on Mickey’s shoulder as they talked last night.

“I just—I don’t even understand _why_ I did it, I just remember feeling fucking empty.”

“I know why you did it,” Mickey says quietly.

Ian blinks back at him, sniffling a bit. He furrows his brow, signaling that Mickey should explain.

“Come on, Ian, you were sick,” Mickey starts, realizing that Ian doesn’t yet remember those early days after his diagnosis. He considers his next words carefully, not wanting to overwhelm Ian with details.

“You were seventeen and your whole fuckin’ life had just changed, man. It’s okay that you needed to be alone to deal with that,” he says.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Ian says. Like it’s a certainty. Mickey is stunned for a moment.

“I—no, I guess I didn’t,” he replies simply, “but Ian it’s not _about_ that. You did what you needed to do. I got it.”

Ian nods curtly, clearly not quite getting it himself.

Mickey rubs a hand over his tired eyes. They’d talked through all of this in prison, and again after they got married. They came to terms with their past—their hurts, their scars. It’s exhausting going through it again.

He can’t imagine what Ian must be feeling.

“Just remember that we got through it, man,” he murmurs, pushing Ian back towards his pillow. He needs to rest now. “It took a while, but we did get there. Shit, we _are_ there.”

Mickey stands and crosses the room. Ian still has creases of worry in his brow, but he nods at Mickey as he settles against his pillow. Mickey nods back and turns out the light before heading back downstairs for another night on the couch.

-

Ian stays in bed the next day.

Mickey doesn’t find this out until his work shift is almost over, when Debbie texts to ask if he can grab Franny from the sitter.

 _Why doesn’t Ian have her??_ Mickey types out immediately, his chest tightening. Debbie’s reply comes quickly: _bad day._

Mickey ducks out of work half an hour early, scoops Franny from the sitter’s house, and rushes home. Once he has his niece settled in front of some cartoons with a snack, he takes the stairs two at a time to check on Ian.

Ian is at least facing the door when he creeps into the room. His pale face peeks out at Mickey from beneath the blankets, eyes wide and afraid. Mickey’s heart thuds in his chest. It’s been a while since they had a low period. Ian tends to lean towards mania when his meds weaken.

But he isn’t sure if this is a bipolar low or an Ian remembering every terrible thing that ever happened to him at once low. Apparently Ian isn’t sure either, croaking, “Is this what it feels like?”

Mickey’s across the room in an instant, sitting on the edge of the bed and resting his hand on Ian’s arm.

“Is that what _what_ feels like?” he asks, although he understands the question. He wants to get Ian talking.

“The bipolar,” he answers dully, “is this—is this it?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey answers honestly, “could be.”

It’s not surprising that this would trigger an episode. In fact, it probably should have been expected.

“I don’t know if I can stand this,” Ian whispers.

Mickey doesn’t tell him that, all things considered, this spell doesn’t seem too bad. Ian’s conscious, for one, and he’s not yelling at Mickey to leave him alone. The fact that they’re able to have a coherent conversation at all is a good sign. But he doesn’t want to invalidate what Ian’s feeling right now. He doesn’t remember that first depressive episode— and any low is low enough.

“You _can_ ,” Mickey responds fiercely, “you always have.”

He watches closely as Ian sits up gingerly and rests against the wall behind their bed. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, the effort clearly having taken a lot out of him. 

“All last night,” he says lowly, “and all day today. I remembered… things I did.”

Fuck. That could mean _anything._

Mickey’s not sure he wants to hear Ian’s perspective on the things he did back then. Ian tends to think the worst of himself when he gets low—he never offers himself the same compassion he so willingly extends to others. He’s always struggled with the shame of his past; reliving it now must be excruciating.

Mickey doesn’t think he can stand listening to Ian berate himself again. But he knows he’ll hear anything Ian needs to say. So he asks.

“Like what?”

Ian looks anywhere but at Mickey, like Mickey doesn’t know all of this already.

“The helicopter,” he says through a heavy breath, “sucking guys off in the club bathroom, doing coke with Monica… going to see you in prison. Getting paid for it.”

Mickey bites at his lower lip. Yeah, that’s a lot.

“ _Why,”_ Ian groans, “why would I _do_ all that? What happened to me?”

“Ian,” Mickey starts, not at all sure how to do this. He makes a mental note to call Ian’s therapist. They’re gonna need to work overtime.

“You did a lot of those things because you were sick,” he says, “because you weren’t thinking straight.”

“Not all of them,” Ian responds sharply, levelling him with a significant look.

“No,” Mickey admits, “but you also did a lot of shit because you don’t fuckin’ trust yourself.”

Ian ponders this for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer.

“I knew things happened; things I did wrong. But before… before I could remember, I was curious. I wanted to know. I just didn’t know it was so _bad._ ”

“You did have some bad times,” Mickey agrees, “but it wasn’t, like, constant misery, man. Did you remember anything good today?”

Ian smiles in spite of himself and Mickey feels his heart skip. They can do this.

“Kev and V’s first wedding,” he says, smile growing wider. “Dancing with Mandy. Running down some alleyway with you.”

He pauses, looking down and picking at the blanket in his lap. A faint pink blush makes its way across his cheeks and he adds:

“Blowing you behind a dumpster in the same alley.”

Mickey snorts, ducking his head. That was a good day. And all in all, good days are their baseline.

They’re best fucking friends; they goof off and fuck around and wrestle in the living room. They’re lovers. They make each other come and they make each other laugh. They’re partners, looking out for each other and providing for each other with meals and beers and back rubs.

He hopes Ian is starting to get that. He stands, stretching his arms over his head as he moves back towards the door.

“Tip of the iceberg, Gallagher,” he calls over his shoulder, “you’ve blown me all over this town.”

He hears Ian huff a laugh and then—

“Mick?”

Mickey turns back to look at him, eyebrows raised.

“What’s up, Red?”

“What do we do about this?”

Ian gestures to himself. Right. His mood. Mickey does know what to do about that. They’ve got it down to art now.

“Same thing we always do,” he says. “Keep an eye on it. If it lasts more than a few days or gets worse, we’ll call the clinic. Get your meds checked out.”

Ian nods, his shoulders losing some of their tension. 

“We got this, Gallagher,” Mickey promises. “Relax a bit. I’ll bring you some food later.”

He heads back downstairs feeling a little lighter than he did going up them. They’ve got this.

-

Mickey wakes to a giant goddamn hand shaking him forcefully.

“ _Jesus,_ what the fuck,” he groans, blinking sleep from his eyes. Ian is towering over him, wild eyed and panicked. His skin is illuminated by the streetlight outside; it’s almost ghoulish.

In an instant, Mickey shoots up, grabbing Ian by the arm and pulling him down next to him on the couch.

“Ian,” he says as calmly as he can, fighting through the tremor of fear he can’t help, “Ian, what’s going on?”

He lays a hand on Ian’s cheek, directing his head up to face him. Ian’s eyes dart wildly around the room, but his own hand comes up to rest on Mickey’s. Through ragged breaths, he speaks.

“I did a—Jesus _Christ_ —I did a porno, Mickey. And then I, oh my _god_ , holy fuck—I just took your kid. I took Yevgeny,” he rambles, his voice growing increasingly distressed.

Mickey is silent. It’s not like he can deny it. Instead, he runs a hand through Ian’s hair, across the back of his neck, down his arm. He hums, acknowledging the truth.

“Why didn’t you _warn_ me?”

And fuck, maybe he should have. He and Lip had been careful not to burden Ian with too many details of his manic episodes, afraid of overwhelming him. But right now, Mickey’s not sure that _this_ is any better.

“Shit, Ian, I’m sorry,” he offers, knowing he can’t make this better. He needs to let Ian work through these memories, just as he did after they happened.

“I’m _crazy,_ like full on batshit Monica _insane,_ ” Ian moans, looking at Mickey with desperate eyes.

“ _Hey,_ ” Mickey says sharply. “Yeah, you got this thing. And it’s knocked you on your ass before. But you _handle_ it, Ian, you always do.”

Ian takes a gasping breath and Mickey holds him by the shoulders.

“You remember the helicopter and you remember taking Yev. Do you remember how you felt then? What it felt like in your brain?”

He nods, clearly terrified of the memory.

“That’s the mania, Ian. You know how that feels and we know how to spot it now. You don’t feel like that all the time, right?”

“No,” Ian whispers.

“Right, because you take care of your shit. You’re not _crazy,_ Ian.”

“Why do you bother with me?” Ian asks weakly, and holy fuck. _No._

“Because I love you,” Mickey says, maybe a little harshly. “What the _fuck_ , Ian, I know you don’t remember everything but you have to get that by now. You’re my husband and I fucking love you!”

Ian is stunned for a moment. Then, before Mickey can process what’s happening, he surges forward and kisses him.

It’s been almost two weeks since the last time they kissed. Ian had leaned over the kitchen table on his way out the door that morning, kissing Mickey sweetly before going to work.

This is nothing like that.

It’s hard and desperate, and Mickey responds immediately, thrusting his hands into Ian’s hair and bringing him in closer. His whole body alights with want; it hums under his skin and ignites his blood.

He groans as Ian licks into his mouth, spurring Ian on more. He teases and sucks at Mickey’s lower lip, unraveling him further. Mickey wonders how much of this is muscle memory for Ian, if his body just instinctively knows how to please Mickey.

Then Ian trails a hand up Mickey’s thigh and cups him through his pajamas, and Mickey’s entire brain short circuits. _Not like this_ , he thinks. He doesn’t want them to reconnect like this—with Ian fearful and desperate on their living room couch.

“Ian,” he breathes. Ian hums against his neck, where he’s currently pressing wet kisses. “Ian,” he says more firmly, “Ian, wait.”

Ian pulls back, and Mickey almost gives in at the sight of him. Cheeks flushed, lips swollen, hair mussed—Mickey has wanted this man for half of his life. He’ll want him forever.

He’ll have him forever.

So not like this. Mickey takes a calming breath and smiles shakily at Ian, who is still gazing at him through lust-hooded eyes.

“We should stop,” he whispers, running a thumb across Ian’s cheek. “Shouldn’t take it too far tonight.”

Ian argues, like Mickey knew he would.

“I just want to show you—”

“I know,” Mickey interrupts softly. “But you don’t have to show me like that. Just keep being here, man, and we’ll get there.”

Ian nods, exhaling harshly through his nose and looking a little lost. He’s hesitant, like he knows that the next step is to go back up to bed alone and he doesn’t want to. Mickey smirks and pulls him down to lay against his chest.

Mickey lays there a while, carding his fingers through Ian’s hair and listening as his breath evens out. They’ll have sore necks and backs in the morning, but he drifts off to sleep feeling steadier than he has in days.

-

Mickey nudges Ian awake as the sun is rising the next morning.

“Hey, sleepy face, up and at ‘em,” he murmurs, crawling off the couch from beneath his giant husband. “I got an idea.”

Ian groans in annoyance, but dutifully gets up and allows himself to be corralled up the stairs to brush his teeth and dress. Mickey eyes him in the mirror as they brush: he looks tired, but thankfully not like he’s about to crawl back into bed and stay for days.

Mickey pours them some coffee in a to-go mug and ushers Ian out the front door. They walk through the neighborhood in sleepy, comfortable silence, passing the coffee back and forth.

Ian raises a brow when they approach the baseball diamond but doesn’t say anything as they hop the fence to the dugout. Mickey shoots him a sly grin and guides him over to sit on a bench.

The summer sun is already starting to heat the morning air, and Mickey wipes at his brow before turning to Ian.

“Do you remember what happened here?”

Ian closes his eyes, searching his mind for the memory. When he opens them, his face hardens slightly.

“I hit you here,” he says flatly.

“Yeah,” Mickey says with a small laugh, “you fuckin’ did. And I sure as shit hit you back.”

Ian doesn’t look impressed. Mickey swallows a groan—Ian doesn’t get it, not yet. This place: it’s them. A site of their rock fucking bottom and their youthful, triumphant nights. Thrown punches and bloody kisses; pull ups and shotguns and hard fucks. It’s goddamn _historic_.

“Do you remember what else happened here?” Mickey asks gently, bumping Ian with his shoulder.

Ian nods, mouth quirking in a small smile. Mickey wonders which time he’s thinking of. He shifts closer to Ian, turning to face him fully.

“We’ve been through a lot of shit, man,” he says. “Hurt each other and misunderstood each other a million fucking times. Put each other and ourselves through hell sometimes.”

He takes a breath. Ian staring at him unblinkingly, eyes searching his face.

“But, shit, you know what? We’ve been happy as hell, too. And now, we came out on top. We earned that. We work at it. And we’ll _keep_ working at it.”

Mickey reaches for Ian’s hand; Ian grasps back immediately, pulling it to his lips for a kiss. He lowers their joined hands to his lap.

“I don’t know how this ends, Ian,” Mickey admits. “I don’t know what you’ll remember next or if there’s something you’ll never get back. But I’m here for it, man.”

Ian swallows thickly and tightens his hold on Mickey’s hand.

“Me too,” he answers softly. “I don’t… I don’t have the whole story. I know that. But I know what you’ve been to me. What you _are_ to me. I’m here, too.”

Mickey’s grin is slow and wide. This is what he’s always wanted from Ian. Presence, investment. And Ian has overcome his own insecurities and traumas, shit his own brain chemistry, time and time again to give it to him. He’ll do it again. 

“I won’t lie, man, there’s some more unpleasant shit in your upcoming memories. Just… promise me you’ll try not to beat yourself up too much over them. And don’t beat me up, either,” he adds quickly, only half-joking.

Ian barks out a laugh, shoulders shaking with the force of it. It takes Mickey’s breath away, to see him laughing in this place again.

“I promise, Mick,” he says as his laughter dies down.

Mickey knew he would. Mickey knows he’ll always wait for Ian, just like he knows Ian will always come back for him. He seals the deal by leaning in and closing the distance between them.

This kiss is different from the one last night. It isn’t rushed or fraught or tinged with panic. It’s slow and sweet and full of something hopeful. Mickey tries to infuse it with a promise of his own.

_I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how we feelin? Ian was always going to struggle with reliving pieces of his past, but he's always got Mickey to help him through it. these punks are undeniable. Mickey did a lot of gushing over Ian in this chapter - next time, Ian will return the favor as things keep evolving. 
> 
> find me on tumblr @mickeys-upset


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m sorry this took so long - a return to form for me, huh? please note the tags - updated tw for blood and violence (vague memories of 3x06 and 4x11) you should also note that i did NOT rewatch either of these episodes so if there are any inaccuracies to those memories.. that’s why. but we can blame it on ian’s memory instead of mine. medical inaccuracies tag also still applies science is fake! also it’s 4 AM as i finish this and i’ll edit when i’m dead!

Ian hisses as his forearm grazes the lip of the hot skillet in front of him. This is the first time he has really cooked since the accident: beyond PB&Js for the kids or tossing together a salad for dinner, his siblings have largely relegated Ian to setting the table or grabbing a liter of soda from the fridge to share.

It’s like they forgot that when he _was_ fifteen, Ian made dinners all the time.

Running his stinging skin under the faucet, he wonders now if they don’t have a point. Ian’s never been a _great_ cook. His chicken is always a little rubbery and he singes his vegetables. And he _always_ hurts himself, whether it a be small nick or a mild burn.

But Ian likes to cook. He likes feeding his family, likes filling their bellies and sitting with them around the table while they eat. He’s never been able to make them anything _nice_ , but they’re all used to his overcooked pasta and charred grilled cheeses by now. With Ian and food, it’s always been the thought that counts.

He can make a solid breakfast though. Ian spent a lot of early manic mornings and late nights perfecting the art of scrambling an egg and frying bacon. Which brings him to the pancake batter rising and bubbling before him now, growing fluffy and golden on the griddle.

It’s early. Ian moves slowly and comfortably about the kitchen, cracking eggs and pouring milk and slicing bananas. With every flip of the spatula, Ian’s sleepy haze fades. Waking up to take his meds is still new for him, even if he’s always been comfortable rising early. Something about the obligation makes waking up with his alarm colored with resentment.

He has resolved to eradicate that feeling by doing something useful, something fulfilling with his mornings. And Ian can’t think of anything more fulfilling than making breakfast for his husband.

The house is still quiet, but he knows Mickey will be stirring any minute now. They’ve been sharing a bed again for the last couple of nights now that Ian is on steadier ground with their history. He doesn’t like being far from Mickey anymore. And Ian knows Mickey sleeps better now than he has in weeks.

This morning, after Ian hauled himself out of bed, Mickey snuffled and rolled over onto his side, throwing his arm over the empty space once occupied by Ian’s body. Ian watched in quiet amusement from the doorway as Mickey’s brow furrowed and, eyes still closed, felt around for Ian on his rapidly-cooling side of the bed. Not finding him, Mickey huffed again and returned to sleep. Ian’s eyes traced the lines of Mickey’s face as they relaxed, tracked the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed deeply, steadily.

But it never takes long for Mickey to unconsciously register Ian’s absence again. Ian’s not quite sure how Mickey made it sleeping on the couch alone for the last few weeks. Maybe it’s because he _can_ now, but Mickey seems intent on touching Ian—or at least remaining within touching distance—at all times, even in sleep.

Ian grins down at the griddle, thinking about Mickey’s searching hands. Amazing how _he_ can be what they are looking for.

Switching off the burner, Ian lays the table with the stack of banana pancakes, crispy bacon, and two mugs of hot coffee. Mickey’s favorite breakfast. He loads Mickey’s coffee up with extra sugar and creamer the way he likes, even though it makes his own stomach churn.

He surveys the table, wondering briefly if they have enough syrup for Mickey to sufficiently douse his pancakes. Because Ian knows that Mickey likes his drown his pancakes in the stuff. Knows he’s drawn to sugar like a hummingbird.

Ian likes knowing things about Mickey.

Ian likes knowing that Mickey doesn’t know how to swim. That he rubs at his lip when he’s anxious or upset. That he likes to draw and his ears are always a little cold.

He likes knowing that Mickey can’t relax if his sleeves are too tight or constricting, that he really prefers no sleeves at all. That Mickey, at the back of his mind, always needs to feel ready to throw a punch. To defend himself at all times.

And Ian likes knowing that Mickey Milkovich, who once tried to kick his ass for touching his sister, will soon come downstairs from the room they share, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and smile softly at the breakfast laid out for him. He’ll gratefully accept the warm mug placed between his calloused, tattooed hands. He’ll lean up and smack a chaste but firm kiss to Ian’s cheek.

Then he’ll sit down and inhale his food like he doesn’t know where his next meal is coming from. Ian’s heart clenches when he remembers that he once probably didn’t.

True to form, Mickey clambers down the stairs in his boxers and a shirt that triggers a memory in Ian’s mind. Something about Debbie, her eyes blown with shock. The crack of the baseball bat. Heart-hammering, mind-numbing fear and a cry from Fiona. And then. Mickey’s hand on his cheek, smoothing down his face, _it’s okay it’s alright—_

Ian is thrust back into reality at the actual touch of Mickey’s hand to his face. He blinks hard and shakes his head harshly as Mickey raises an eyebrow and speaks lowly.

“You good in there, Gallagher?” he asks, tapping gently at Ian’s temple.

Ian looks down at Mickey. Studies his face for a moment. And he’s blown away. Mickey, who once kicked his teeth out in fear and rage and helplessness—here is Mickey, standing in his kitchen. _Their_ kitchen. Where his siblings and niece were born. And he’s wearing the most open, honest, _kind_ expression. Asking how he’s doing. _And meaning it._

Ian snorts in amazement. Widens and then rolls his eyes fondly.

“I’m fine, Mick,” he says through a smile, “sit down and eat your breakfast.”

They eat quietly together for a moment, listening to the sounds of the family waking up in the rooms above them. Mickey catches Ian’s feet between his under the table and gently rocks them back and forth.

Ian’s not really sure where the next memory comes from. It blossoms, unbidden and unwelcome, from deep within the recesses of his mind. In one instant he’s thinking about the sticky syrup at the corner of Mickey’s mouth, and in the next he’s thinking about blood.

Mickey’s blood.

Mickey is bleeding and weakly shielding himself from heavy blows. Fists— _a gun?—_ rain down over and over with a sickening rhythm. Mickey rolls across the floor of the Alibi— no, wait, he’s on the couch in the Milkovich living room. Ian runs for cover, or he dives into the fray. Somewhere in a mind fogged over with fear, in realization stark and indelible, he knows Mickey is taking these blows for _him_.

It occurs to Ian that he’s remembering two days at once. And the fact that Ian has multiple memories of _this_ makes him ill. The details flood his consciousness as the memories slam into place with a force that makes him shudder. Terry. Svetlana. Mickey coming out. _You’re a coward._ The lights from a cop car and blood splattered across the snow.

He’d known what happened. Mickey _told_ him. But the images. The colors, the shaking, the terror and resignation in Mickey’s eyes—nothing could have prepared him for _this_. Ian’s been faced with a lot of his own memories—his own actions, his own traumas, his own mistakes—in the last few days. He thinks maybe this is the worst of it.

Mickey looks up sharply when Ian’s fork clatters to the table. Ian watches his face line with concern again and he fucking hates himself for putting that look there twice in one day. Hundreds of times over the course of a decade.

“Mickey,” he chokes over a shallow, painful breath.

“Oh fuck,” Mickey groans, grabbing Ian’s hand in both of his and looking him over with searching eyes. “What was it this time?”

Ian can’t tell him. He can’t say it. Ian knows he _should_ say it. Full disclosure: unravel the memories with fresh eyes and an older, stable mind. He should tell Mickey that he _knows_ now and that he’s sorry he didn’t before. He was a dumb kid, a sick kid, and he knows that doesn’t excuse anything—that he’ll do anything and _give anything_ to make sure Mickey never suffers like that again.

And he will, someday soon. Mickey already knows, anyways.

For now, Ian rubs a thumb over the back of Mickey’s hand. Watches the soft, pale morning sunlight bounce off his black hair, his eyes, his skin. Smiles lightly and says the only thing he can think of, the only thought filling his brain in the moment.

“You’re the best person I know, Mick.”

Mickey cocks his head and narrows his eyes, lip twitching in suspicion. 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he mumbles, clearly not quite wanting to let this go but still sensing Ian’s reluctance to talk about it. Mickey takes a breath and holds it for a moment, before blowing it out in a rush and shrugging. He picks up his fork and resumes eating.

Ian watches him fondly: Mickey has bedhead and his clothes are sleep-rumpled. He slurps his coffee and loudly smacks his bacon as he chews. Ian can’t believe it: he’s loved every iteration of this man and all the through lines he contains. 

Mickey seems to realize he’s being studied and rolls his eyes. Jabbing at a wayward slice of banana and without looking up, he gripes, “Eat your goddamn pancakes.”

-

Mickey’s at work later when Lip drops by. Ian is scrubbing at the breakfast dishes, half-listening to the sitcom Liam is watching in the living room. Lip claps him on the shoulder on his way to the fridge where he pulls out a soda. Settling into a seat at the kitchen table, he watches Ian clean for a moment.

When Ian shoots him an annoyed, _just-spit-it-out_ look, he finally speaks.

“So, do you remember me kicking your ass under the L yet?”

Ian snorts. “No, don’t remember _that,”_ he teases. “But I do seem to recall kicking _your_ smug ass under the L.”

Lip raises an eyebrow in amusement, before dropping his gaze to his hands as he fiddles with the tab on his can of pop.

“But the, uh, the memories and everything? Going good?”

Ian can tell what his brother is asking him. He could always tell. _Are you okay? Is this going to send you spinning out? Do I need to prepare for this?_

Scrubbing at a particularly stubborn spot of syrup, he thinks about this. Really thinks about it, in a way that maybe he never would have before. If there’s anything to force a change in coping habits—to demand to change from his compartmentalizing comfort zone—surely this is it.

“Things are _okay_ ,” he answers slowly, giving up on the syrup and dropping the plate in the sink to soak. “I think me and Mickey are on track, anyways.”

Lip nods, then tilts his head forward, gesturing for Ian to continue with what he knows he needs to say. Ian sighs, crossing the kitchen to throw himself into a chair across from his brother.

“It’s just— I feel like I’m only living with part of my life, you know?” Ian breathes out harshly, shifting in his seat and trying to maintain his composure. “Like, I know I went to prison, right? I even sort of remember being there. But I don’t remember doing the thing that landed me there.”

“Ian, you were sky high then, you probably wouldn’t remember that, anyways,” Lip reminds him.

Ian waves him away. “Fine, maybe not. But I also don’t remember getting fucking _married_ or Monica’s funeral. These are huge things, Lip, and they’re still just, I don’t know, _gone._ ”

Lip takes this in for a moment before leaning forward. “Okay, so, you don’t remember these exact moments yet. And maybe you won’t. But you know how these things make you feel, right? That counts for something.”

It takes a beat for this to land. But Lip’s right, really. Ian doesn’t remember standing up at his mother’s service or putting her grave back together. But he remembers her. He remembers the way it felt to be held be her, loved by her—in the way only Monica _could_ love. Ian remembers mourning her. Mourns her still. 

And he doesn’t remember seeing Mickey in a tux or shoving wedding cake in his face. But he knows how it feels to be married to him. Ian knows the warmth that spreads through his veins when Mickey calls him _husband_ or _lover._ He could probably live on that warmth forever.

“Fatherhood has really enlightened you, you know?

Lip scoffs. “I was always enlightened, you dick.”

“No, you were always _smart._ This is something else. Fred did this to you. And Tami.”

A slow smile spreads across Lip’s face at the mention of his family. Ian can’t help but smile with him. His brother: a man, a father. He may not remember everything about how Lip got here, but he’s thrilled by the version of his brother that sits before him.

“Yeah, I guess they did.”

-

It’s later that evening, after the Gallaghers have all discussed their days over wings and beer, bickered a little, and said goodnight, when something occurs to Ian. Mickey is sitting up in bed, sketching some scene of their drive to Mexico by the low lamplight. Ian’s resting on his back, the line of his body pressed firmly against his husband’s.

“ _Mickey_ ,” he sings lightly, turning onto his side and tracing a finger along the hem of Mickey’s t-shirt.

Mickey just hums in question, attention still largely focused on the sketchpad in his lap. The scratching of his pencil is comforting; Ian’s nerves are already a little frayed by what he’s about to say.

“Mickey, what about my job?”

The pencil pauses for a moment before Mickey starts tapping it anxiously against the paper. Ian looks up at him: Mickey peers back down at him, worrying his lip between his teeth.

“What about it?” he asks. Then, as if sensing Ian’s line of thinking, he hurriedly adds, “You’re not ready to go back to work, man.”

“I know _that_ ,” Ian huffs, “I could barely tell you what my job _is_ at this point. But what am I going to do?”

“We’re not hurting for cash right now, Ian.” And, shockingly enough, that’s true. There’s still a squirrel fund hidden in the kitchen, but it’s more out of habit and for peace of mind than anything else. No one’s stealing from the church collection plates anymore.

“That’s great, but that’s not what I mean,” Ian groans, rubbing the heels of his palms over his eyes. His head is still aching a little, but this gnawing thought won’t subside.

“Alright, Gallagher, what do you mean, then?” Mickey asks, tapping him on the nose with his pencil.

Ian tries to rein it in, he really does. But instead it all comes spilling out of him.

“I need something to _do_ , Mickey,” he says, tripping over his thoughts as they rush forward. “I am useless right now. I just sleep and eat and wander around the house. Sometimes I jack off. But I don’t—I don’t _do_ anything!”

Mickey gently claps a hand over his mouth and Ian pouts beneath his palm.

“Man, you’re healing. Only you would complain about resting for a couple of weeks after literal brain trauma. This shit takes time, Gallagher, or are you not listening when we sit in the doctor’s office?”

Ian knows Mickey’s right, but it still grates on him. Ian has never liked being idle. He’s always had a purpose, something to fill his days and his brain—something to keep him moving, keep him focused. He deflates a little.

“I’m just tired of losing things, Mickey,” he murmurs.

“Hey, come on, _easy_. Ian, you haven’t lost anything,” Mickey chides. At Ian’s bewildered look, he relents. “Okay, yeah, you’ve lost _some_ things. But they’re coming back this time.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you’re fuckin’ _you_ , Gallagher. If you want a purpose in life, you’ll fucking _make_ one. Maybe you’ll get this job back. Maybe not—but you’re not defeated, man. This isn’t over.”

Ian knows he accomplished a lot without Mickey there. He can remember some of those years: clawing tooth and nail back into stability, throwing himself into the path of fulfillment. Of peace. But he knows now that with Mickey’s support—Mickey’s unabashed pride in loving him—every triumph will come a little sweeter.

Ian _has_ lost a lot in his years. But he’s never lost this, not really. Mickey’s always been out there, loving him. And now Mickey’s _here_ , loving him.

He leans down and kisses Mickey softly. He’s right. This isn’t over.

-

Ian tiptoes into the bathroom a little while later, careful not to wake the house of sleeping Gallaghers. He splashes water on his face, and it’s as he’s patting a washcloth against his skin that it hits him.

Mickey moving towards him at the Polish Doll, Sandy on his arm. Anticipation and fucking adoration in his eyes. Ian’s own hands shaking as Mickey rubbed a thumb across them, his tattooed fingers soft upon his skin. The cool, grounding feeling of rings sliding over his finger.

Breathing his name as he started his vows. _I, Ian, take you, Mickey_. Never meaning anymore more than those words. Mickey’s slight smile as Ian repeated the words from the reverend. Both of them afraid to even blink, lest the moment be shattered.

The swelling of love. The promises made and finally fucking kept. _Now?_ _Yes, now._ Fixing Mickey’s bowtie in his childhood bedroom before the ceremony. Holding him as they swayed together in purple light. Feeling wholly safe.

_In sickness and in health, in sickness and in health, in sickness and in—_

When they’d exchanged those vows, Ian, and surely Mickey, too, had been thinking of his bipolar. He never could have anticipated _this._ But during this whole ordeal Mickey has never wavered, at least not in front of Ian.

And Ian doesn’t _need_ to remember the wedding to feel Mickey’s devotion. But— the memory of their commitment, it sparks some hot glowing ember deep within his gut.

They’ve been through so fucking much. And they made it to that moment. Every split, every moment that felt so cataclysmic and fatal, every wrench in their trajectory: every single upending and upheaval of their world sent them hurtling back together.

This suddenly feels like nothing. It’s _nothing._ Not in the face of them and everything they are. And Ian can’t move fast enough.

He flies down the hallway and tears the accordion door open. He stands, heaving in the doorway, and Mickey’s head flies up at the sound.

“What fuckin’ now, man? You gotta relax, Gallagher, it ain’t that deep—”

Ian crosses the room in an instant and silences Mickey with a searing kiss. He’s burning with love for this man and he only hopes that Mickey can feel it rage. Mickey laughs in surprise against his lips before catching fire himself, pulling Ian closer and tugging firmly at his hair.

“I am,” Ian whispers fiercely between pressing kisses to Mickey’s lips, his face, his neck, his hair, “so _fucking_ in love with you, you know that? Again, and fucking again.”

Mickey goes still under Ian’s hands. Pulls back to look at him, taking his face in his hands. Looking as serious as the day he said _I, Mikhailo._

“Yeah, Ian, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter might as well be called, “here, have a lot of my headcanons and also all of the softness i have been missing in the new season”!! thanks for joining me. i’m on tumblr @liamgallaghers


End file.
